Some things aren’t meant to be known, but we have grown them
deep, from seed, and whispered them into pearl-earring portraits.
How do we stop ourselves from becoming melting clocks? Abandoned
suitcases on paintbrushed stairs, empty chairs at ramshackle tables?
We test our pulse. Our IQ. Our ability to understand the geometric
circles we run, our ability to be more than still life fruit. The root of
reason says we can’t smell that brush-stroked ocean’s salt, but we
carve our initials into family trees and call it the art of promise. We
smudge battlefields in color, crimson, clay. I am personally currently
making a deal with that chalk devil, and his pointed gaze. Raise
the sirens; we are coming home to plantation mansions and the
lamentations of last supper sweat. We’re not there yet, but there’s a
grasshopper plague that says it’s gonna be a quiet crop, and the
weather page calls for stilted, scattered hope. What is it that we
are? Strangers in a diner? Starry nights? Water lily ponds, a silent
scream? We are canvas, and we hold our favorite colors deep, steep
ourselves in the schizophrenic love of masks. Please, cover me in
fig leaves and the apple peelings of my own sin(ged) heart. Pull loose
these unshy shredded threads that hold me fast. Let me plead
with this sky, this ceiling made of mirrored moon and glass.
Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 20. This is the one with all the prompts.