Monday, February 16, 2009

Fragments; a thought

When I was younger, I was always the boy; my feet
smelled like malt vinegar. 

He stands, stature, as the welcoming committee.
He tans his fur in the sun. 

She almost fell down the stairs she was so excited. 

They keep sending mail to the dead and he was turning 
green and the scales that covered his body were growing
out around him. He could not watch. And together, there
they sunk deeper into the folded fabric of the couch. 

A sock filled with her jewels. Diamonds
spilling onto the bedspread; followed by
our collective wet eyes. We threw almost
everything else away. The thought of her wrinkled
hands struggling with the toothpaste cap. She'd look
in the mirror, past her granddaughters faces and to the
face of a young one. A lost mother coming to take care
of her buried child. 

Armenian, I've seen those eyes before. I inherited them
from the boat, off the shore and into my grandmother's
eyes as she sat across from him on the ferris wheel. 

He's the first to hold my hand. 

Finally, though, it was the stones that did her in.
The beauty and the bluntness of them all. The irregularities;
the smoothness and the way they could walk on water. 

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