Saturday, March 15, 2014
Some mornings you wake with a dream on your tongue. The memory of it thick, see?
but just beyond remembering.
He wakes with lightning on his tongue, forked and bright. All day. All day, the salt and mercury of it linger in his mouth. Something’s coming.
Or
perhaps
something’s here.
wake Melantha wakeSaturday, March 15, 2014 Evensong
There is a name that she does not remember. It catches between her teeth. It slides beneath the root of her tongue. The glimpse of a face she does not know in the mirror over the sink of the restroom of the bar-and-grille.
The bulb is going out.
The door is swinging closed.
Everything is empty. Everything is full.
Is that a mirror, or
a window, or
– oh yes, now she remembers –
a door.
wake Tamsin wakeSaturday, March 15, 2014
The room is wrong. The window is off-center. The corners skew, and she notices it while she is brushing her teeth; a mouthful of minty foam, the scent of something missing curling soft in the air. As if everything had been taken apart while she slept, and fitted back together by someone who remembered the space, imperfectly, impatiently. Or perhaps merely: not well.
All day she thinks of paths; of winding roads; of crumbling gates. Sails, somehow, full of a westering wind, painted in the light of a falling sun.
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