fragments
At an age when most people are firmly esconced in what they want to do or soundly distrubed by what they are doing, she, keenly aware of the big chunks of life in love for which she has given, comes out firmly on the side of progress.
Island kind of crying, with that hula hoop manioc thump thump. White heaps of plaster again and again and again, except that this time she leaps, head first, across the chasm that splits her life in two. Now will be what never was before.
What rivited girders disturb her aching sod? And who, should she cry out, would purchase her boiled bedsprings and rusted sweatlodge. Who, if she were able to listen, would whisper “blood and night, blood and night, always the neighborhood muse.” Tiny Ottomans, great Ottomans.
The cylindrical stairwells where attorneys spit. I tussle on the ground for revenue stamps to fix my supplication. Rajendran lances his nanny’s boil with a grimace through betel-stained teeth. He’s noxious and platonic and swears by the centurion’s dream:
borders
boundries
shells
shards
husks
wrappers
envelopes
bags
filo.
I get up at 5 a.m. with the moon to catch the goat and plead with her for milk. Miles of red earth broken by giant wooden carts, fourteen foot high teak wheels fanned by obedient well-oiled priests. It takes connections and lots of hide. At the age of 41 i slept through the garbage can men.
