A different way to measure time
By lavadis
Sat, 09 Nov 2024
- 195 reads
6 comments
1 likes
When I arrived in the park,
the autumn leaves
had formed an
auburn duvet
on my usual bench.
Moments after I had begun sketching tree skeletons in charcoal,
my fingers stained
by unresolved arguments,
a woman approached me
dressed in a patchwork quilt
of satin and stains.
‘This is awkward’ said the woman, the sun pixelating her hair,
her face a roiling murmuration
of expressions.
‘I hope you don’t mind
but I think you are my father.’
I swept a handful of leaves onto the ground as she sat down beside me
taking my hands in her own
and geologically mapping the contours of my face with her eyes.
I had forgotten to breath,
it didn’t seem important
‘You are old’ I said.
‘You are far older’ she replied
‘How is your mother? I asked.
‘Dead’ she said, ‘since yesterday’
‘which is why you chose today’ I said.
‘which is why I chose today’ she replied.
‘Bukowski or Plath?’ she asked
‘Unknown Pleasures or Morrison Hotel
Ballard or St John-Mandel?
Chagall or Rothko
Pickard or Kirk?’
‘All of them’ I said
‘Of course’ she replied
‘Of course.’
She squeezed my fingers with my mother’s hands
and we sat
in my father’s silence
- Log in to post comments
Comments
This is our Facebook and
Permalink Submitted by sean mcnulty on
This is our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day. Please share and retweet!
- Log in to post comments
1 User voted this as great feedback
ah, difficult and breathing
ah, difficult and breathing is always optional, paternity fade out.
- Log in to post comments
1 User voted this as great feedback
'All of them I said..." Well,
'All of them I said..." Well, yes!
That's a wonderfully beguiling poem
[Should there be just one 'her' in the line....."the sun pixelating her her hair"?]
- Log in to post comments