she wore it to the Y, unaware of herself, how
obnoxious the innocuous colour stretched
out and over the flesh. those puckered kisses
of fat on her elbows and knees. she smiled up
at her father's camera, its Cyclops
eye swallowing her whole.
20090126
.cut.time.
He feels his father's gaze on his increasingly clumsy hands. Hands which have traced out the time of his own life. He no longer has the wind to rewind himself.
And of what worth are 5, sometimes 10, lines furrowing their grooves on a sheet of paper?
What are they worth when there is a hopelessly entangled mess of nerves and veins, crisscrossing one over each other, scrambling and encoding every which way the delicate signals of blood and intent.
As his toe taps, his father would count out his disappointments to the rhythm of heartbeats and sighing breaths.
And when the switch came down on him, he cried for his fragile hands to be spared.
What is it worth to flutter through school, sight reading nothing beyond the measures of quarters and rests?
It is to amputate his life before it has even grown, his father had counselled, with a face that, over the years, had become nothing more than two collapsing fermatas perched upon the ledgers of his cheek bones.
He thinks of his father as his old fingers finish their task. He thinks of how he could never stitch together the paternal hopes into a burial shroud, but could only offer the flittering, intangible notes that evaporated into the cemetery air.
And as he closes the guitar case, he makes sure to remind himself that he did not succeed in bringing his patient to life, but
by god,
he'd make her sing.
And of what worth are 5, sometimes 10, lines furrowing their grooves on a sheet of paper?
What are they worth when there is a hopelessly entangled mess of nerves and veins, crisscrossing one over each other, scrambling and encoding every which way the delicate signals of blood and intent.
As his toe taps, his father would count out his disappointments to the rhythm of heartbeats and sighing breaths.
And when the switch came down on him, he cried for his fragile hands to be spared.
What is it worth to flutter through school, sight reading nothing beyond the measures of quarters and rests?
It is to amputate his life before it has even grown, his father had counselled, with a face that, over the years, had become nothing more than two collapsing fermatas perched upon the ledgers of his cheek bones.
He thinks of his father as his old fingers finish their task. He thinks of how he could never stitch together the paternal hopes into a burial shroud, but could only offer the flittering, intangible notes that evaporated into the cemetery air.
And as he closes the guitar case, he makes sure to remind himself that he did not succeed in bringing his patient to life, but
by god,
he'd make her sing.
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