Untitled, 2017

Sunday, December 17, 2017

 

He's hung his tshirts on the window.

 

"Why do you do that?" I asked.

 

"To dry them," he grunted, through sleep dry lips, and turned to the cool side of the pillow.

 

The air feels like felt fuzz on my tongue and the room is too hot to sleep in but his half of the bed is besieged by Dream. I watch the window. Afternoon haze like dandelion fluff, the t-shirts and the sun behind and the ribcage of the blinds. Breathing so deep they whistle.

 

In the summer around noon you can hold a leaf up to the sky and the sun will show all the veins. My dad used to say the veins are where the life is. He taught me how to find it.  You can trace your fingers over the ridges and break away the flesh and you're holding pure life in your hands.

 

His veins look like peach skins or stale air on laundry day. I can see them from the bed, t-shirts against the window. He's strung up his chests and he's let the light through to show you where the bones are. With the sun at just window height, at heady Sunday afternoon height, you can read what's written there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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