Birds
Uno
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these are two birds flying away from each other.
When you left, I banged my fist against the wall until the paint came loose, so I peeled it off in bits and ate it. I did it because when it ground against my teeth, I couldn't hear your voice in my ears.
When I was seven, my grandmother's house was robbed and she was strangled with her rosary. She was buried with red, circular marks around her neck, clutching the beads like she had requested in her will.
El Día de los Muertos is when I get drunk on the smell of the flowers. When I was a little girl, I thought my name was Marigold and I would answer to it. The Day of the Dead used to be my day.
I love the transparent scent of foggy mornings, the silence before or after the rain, the white glow where the earth and the sky meet. Mornings are the empty spaces between the words. Without mornings, I could never catch my breath.
I've got a beautiful leather-bound diary with a sketch of your portrait on the first page. It cost a fortune, that diary. Don't tell anyone, but I'm burning it page by page, one each day, starting from the last one. In less than four months your picture will be a handful of ash.
I'm used to living in a white house with white rooms, sleeping in white sheets. I'm used to Jesus hanging above the door, his disappointed gaze following me as I wander the empty rooms.
You used to ask me to stop wearing makeup, you thought it was silly to wear a mask every day. I never stopped putting it on, but I always cleaned my face before you came by each night. You thanked me for it, but I really did it so I wouldn't stain my impeccable sheets when my face hit the pillow. These days, I leave the makeup on. You can't take off a mask if there's nothing behind.
When I talk about you in past tense, people give me strange looks. "He's not dead," they remind me, and I just smile bitterly. The last time I touched you, you were as cold as a corpse.
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these are two birds flying towards each other, but I don't see much of those around here anymore.
these are two birds flying away from each other.
When you left, I banged my fist against the wall until the paint came loose, so I peeled it off in bits and ate it. I did it because when it ground against my teeth, I couldn't hear your voice in my ears.
When I was seven, my grandmother's house was robbed and she was strangled with her rosary. She was buried with red, circular marks around her neck, clutching the beads like she had requested in her will.
El Día de los Muertos is when I get drunk on the smell of the flowers. When I was a little girl, I thought my name was Marigold and I would answer to it. The Day of the Dead used to be my day.
I love the transparent scent of foggy mornings, the silence before or after the rain, the white glow where the earth and the sky meet. Mornings are the empty spaces between the words. Without mornings, I could never catch my breath.
I've got a beautiful leather-bound diary with a sketch of your portrait on the first page. It cost a fortune, that diary. Don't tell anyone, but I'm burning it page by page, one each day, starting from the last one. In less than four months your picture will be a handful of ash.
I'm used to living in a white house with white rooms, sleeping in white sheets. I'm used to Jesus hanging above the door, his disappointed gaze following me as I wander the empty rooms.
You used to ask me to stop wearing makeup, you thought it was silly to wear a mask every day. I never stopped putting it on, but I always cleaned my face before you came by each night. You thanked me for it, but I really did it so I wouldn't stain my impeccable sheets when my face hit the pillow. These days, I leave the makeup on. You can't take off a mask if there's nothing behind.
When I talk about you in past tense, people give me strange looks. "He's not dead," they remind me, and I just smile bitterly. The last time I touched you, you were as cold as a corpse.
}{
these are two birds flying towards each other, but I don't see much of those around here anymore.