In the dark, with cool blue clouds falling through windows he sees that place he could crawl to stone-on-bare-knees– He’d like to live there (she knows), on high mountain ranges, close enough, wet, absent. The air tastes like time, incensed and old in his teeth. Windy cliffs, a dry wind that pulls, a mindful relinquishing to bell-tone prayer flags. In this place, far from buzzing sharp insects deep in pits, he might leave his feet, become something less tangible, the invisible ever-present man.
II. She Covets Fiji
But he is dead, the unreachable turn— she might hate him for dreaming so easily. Hers are waking dreams, half-finished paintings inside salt lids. She wants to see Fiji’s soft beaches, and green, saturation and hue in thick dull curtains weighted by dust, not this heavy, slack-jawed, unfazed.
She dreams of her mother, Menominee eyes and ragged oil skin, cunning empress of what’s-best. Spots linger in the dark veiled skin, wont to break.
She strikes with don’t-bite-your-nails shorter, past ‘folles avoines’, past Fiji, where Mother’s face weeps. The black refines to wasps, larger and louder and furious drone-buzzing awake and upright.
III. At Night
Thoughts of others roll past, some humpity-himp lolling what-ifs and perhaps do-overs list left then right, near to dreaming. I need water, it’s dark, I’m cold, I want closure and pity sex and for-the-roads and maybe also a sandwich. Himpity-hump rollover he must be dreaming by now, a great beasty lump under my fucking covers quiet to dead any moment.