What we’ll remember. Storm-clouds gathering, denim and slate, over our horizons. How thunder gave us cover and rain gave us relief as we spelled out foreign words on rooftops, drumming the curve of a question into the tar with our blackened heels. The hectic doppler of a helicopter, the urgency it raised in us to sit longer in the blue witching hour of a Virginia night. The creak of a porch swing and the sporadic metallic song of cicadas. Heat-lightning. Jam-jars used for mugs and plastic spoons, take-out chopsticks: poor kitchen, make-do, unraveling of expectations. The door to a room shuts too quickly behind me, the generators whir all night and I fall asleep in the yellow glow of a hundred safety lights, unresting my dreams until another day begins to warm the mid-Atlantic and laps the window with an incessent friendly burn. Someone stole the prayer flags. I can’t find a butter knife. Our tongues stumble and twist, resistant, while bodies immolate. Outcry: the kitchen has been left dirty again. Who arrived, and who will leave? The incense, burned down, is ash.
In response to What We’ll Remember by Luisa Igloria at Via Negativa.