Tongue-numbing taste
of artificial lime,
bite into a cactus-like chip
on a bland afternoon with too much quiet,
except for the ticking
of a square ceramic clock from Sorrento.
I remember the sound
of my parents’ hushed voices,
how “she” landed
wrapped in the inflection of hopelessness.
I could hear from the top of the stairs.
The smell of twisted black iron
lingered on my hands
as I gripped the spiraling banister.
I tingle from a milk-warm melody
inside a parallel point of view,
hands still gripping,
to focus on the possibility
of a face obscured by
internal contradictions.
Isn’t it strange
behind screens that turned to snow
that my ears listened to the same
unvarnished voice
when I was once the girl
at the top of those stairs?
Like somehow she knew.
I trace the outlines of old patterns.
They lived in the apricot tree,
fruit rotting at the bottom
beside the side porch,
and in the stones leading up to it.
Hot beneath summer worn soles,
hoping not to meet
the slimy residue of a slug.
Days steeped
in the promise of care and satisfaction.
(Daily Writing 078)
Thoughts?