your eulogy will be transcribed as the face of a 16 yo teenaged girl outside the illegal abortion clinic. you know how the creased denim of her skinny jeans is flaying a heretic’s vigil at the knot of her knees. you know how she sits overnight at empty bus-stops engraving her DSM disorder in the shirring of the concrete. you see her left behind on a park bench at 3 am : an angora sweater crusted in stains of merlot & tobacco.
autumn has left the deodars anorexic and tight-lipped. i sit in this bedroom filled with the ghosts of vintage soundtracks. a poem hatches from the postcards seeding under the headstones; a quail egg rolls about the porch, brimming with dictionaries and roadmaps.
types of love stories : smokestacks jarred behind the mud puddles. a one-legged dog rolling in a field of poppies. loose change for one good meal, jingled from the glove box of the mobile home you call a jerry-built datsun. a deaf boy who crafts you bookshelves. self-instructing in sign language so you can read to him.
you are the smallest mayfly, a coterie of unsteady closeups in dogme 75. we chopped off your lines at the editing table. you were best remembered as a long pause before they ripsawed the cable. the chortle in the sinkhole; the crumbling sand columns in the dust bowl.
there aren’t enough bathtubs in the world to ice the slandered dice of your rum-thickened au revoirs.
after closing time, the gazebo outside the library spat out a rave of cicadas and i lingered into the milk of earth; barefoot & moonstruck.
memory is an imitation wrist watch you bought from the underground market; misspelling its brand, its time roadblocked by cheap batteries. i will keep leaving you at 4 pm for the rest of our lives.
i miss you. you hurtle across the ghetto of my nightmares with the precise urgency of ambulances cutting through a thicket of riot police. i have dug nails into soft butter to loosen the rosette of this cul-de-sac. i have lugged the riverlocks of your hair as failed proofs of chaos theory. i have slapped duct tape across the length of my seismic undercurrents. i have worn gas-masks and hospital gowns to debutante balls. i have left the sepia connotations of mimosas on the porch. i have filled every whiteboard with magic marker rainbows spelling mea culpa in monotype corsiva. i miss you.
when i turned 18 they told me they wanted to pour an undertow of calculated voltage through the corridors of my mind. they said it would unseal the shut book; the molten threshold of a new illiad.
i am still waiting.
- Scherezade Siobhan©