August 28, 2012

"we have so much left to do"

No one had ever told her this, offered up an unfolding scroll
of future narratives. In fact, a certain scarcity had scratched
at her for years, time running out the door, the whole
notion of space and spaciousness like a fable, a fantasy hatched
from movie cutouts. So when they came, these words, she bent low
to the table she read them from, as if to find the trick,
the red flag, exit sign, the back door where the truth would go.
But the truth was right here, in these lines. Love had made the story stick.
She felt her body yield then, its old convictions disassembling.
Her fingers grazed the inch of syllables, trembling.