grey fall days make me want to go east,
she told me.
go east to where? I asked her.
I’ll only know when I get there.
the wind caught her hair as she strode before me,
a red flash parting the sea of clouds.
she said grey was her favourite colour;
I struggled to keep up with the wind.
at night she lit candles and looked out eastern windows
as a cold rain started to fall.
over tea she told me of ghosts that she’d met,
of the magic that comes only in autumn.
(I didn’t believe her.)
I lost her, one bright summer.
now I wait, with candles and tea in fine china,
for the wind and the first drops of cold rain.
on this grey day, I look east and await the ghost of her magic.
light travels faster than sound,
so I see flashes
reflected on dry pavement
fast food restaurant windows
and gas station pillars
before the siren splits
rush hour in half.
the sound stings.
I am a silhouette against its still motion.
the blurred jumpsuit behind the wheel leans,
checking for oblivious left-turners
and ear-budded pedestrians,
but I am alone on this cornersquare
does it see me,
the world in that burst of speed
through the intersection?
I tell myself it is the cool wind
that has started the burn
in my eyes’ corners
as I lift weighted feet
to carry on.
Originally published on Big Tall Words, June 26, 2014
of being you:
of dancing, smoothly awkward,
at award shows after-parties;
of not being sneered at for wearing sneakers
everywhere, even with formal attire;
of being read and recognized;
of knowing that my work, my words
of never guessing (but perhaps hoping) that someone would read me and
pick up a pen on a saturday morning in march
[dedicated to Joss Whedon]
©2009 Fox Broadcasting Co. Cr: Greg Gayne/FOX