not to be confused with epiphany, apophony, or even apotheosis, you nonetheless came to me in a dream where we were improbably happy…
All these lingual pawns arrayed for something. Tug of the invisible? The inconsequence of a single human life?
Spin them out from their mother tongue
Prophesy the child
Salt marsh child
So reminiscent of your most beautiful
All my injunction are sinuous at 3 a.m. Will pay tomorrow for this singular inability to sleep now for the child is sick and I must watch over her.
Vigil, promise not to go.
The boy-man on the Tarmac in Manaus, Brazil middle of the day on December 27, 1987 was wearing a Talking Heads t-shirt, and the girl inside the plane thought Talking Heads in the heart of the rainforest? Small world, then disembarked to a claustrophobic gift shop, lined as it was with fertility statues and shrunken heads. And jewelry made from river stones, each one small and beautiful and perfect: irreplaceable held in the palm
of the hand.
- 2 doz. cupcakes
- Tea lights
- 2 doz lei
- 2 doz gift bags
- 12 feather boas
- 12 pirate swords
- 2 gal milk
- Birthday banner
- 2 packs juice boxes
- 5 pizzas
- 12 assorted party crowns
- 12 pink tiaras
As the children come into the party room they see the treasure box by the door overflowing with odd vests, second-hand dresses, scarves, hats, helmets, shields, tutus, capes (of course), foam swords, and they don these things, perhaps serially-changing from knight to ballerina to carpenter
Because they are children
And this is their kingdom.
At the beginning of the black-tie fundraiser (325-1675 dollars a plate, depending on your commitment to “the cause”), the organizers have a basket full of random names, (where did they come from? Who were/are these people?) to the current batch of servers-take one and pin it on they say, so they do and for this night they are foreign to themselves-Renata, Consuela, Xavier…instead of Pam, Ashley, and Rob… They have to remember these temporary identities when beckoned or chided by the plate-holders. As when, mid-dessert, a tray falls, sudden show of violence, shattered porcelain, all those scrumptious (expensive) eclairs.
Three players, all brothers, familial resemblance in their eyes, the curve bones of their faces, halo-ed hair, lean in. All intent on winning the game of choosing–rock! paper! scissors! Shoot!! The mantra, the litany, the eventual victor, unaware of what can be broken with all these ordinary things.
the girl-woman in the kitchen takes her time, cracking the dome of the speckled egg with patience and surgical precision, holds the broken pieces together so that only the white can slip through, the round, intact yolk cradled in the serrated halves of a thing once whole and intact which could have been another thing entirely or…an omelet, a quiche, the whipped interstices of meringue, or these lovely macaroons scooped dough into her piping bag from the sterile bowl on the counter, suburban kitchen, tinted carnival colors, creamy in the middle.