A different way to measure time
By lavadis
Sat, 09 Nov 2024
- 294 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
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1 User voted this as great feedback
ah, difficult and breathing
ah, difficult and breathing is always optional, paternity fade out.
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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"?]
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