 |
| Bezimena Nina Bunjevac |
He is the hanging man. Between the cancer-speckled branches of these ancient trees and the angry orange sky, his matted hair hangs to touch where roots have caused the earth to rise and crack; he is suspended by his ankles, bound by a frayed rope of borrowed time.
His world is inverted – he will fall into that sky; fall forever into the arms of some oblivion; some peaceful vacuum where all of the earth will recede above him, unmissed, un-mourned.
But her hand holds him yet. Between his inner world and the blunt edge of reality she stretches out to stay his fall/assent. She is love; she is the source of inner turmoil; the giver of hope; the pea under the mattress; the sand in the lubricant.
To live is to feel the world like sandpaper on the skin of the hanging man.
His world is inverted – he will fall into that sky; fall forever into the arms of some oblivion; some peaceful vacuum where all of the earth will recede above him, unmissed, un-mourned.
But her hand holds him yet. Between his inner world and the blunt edge of reality she stretches out to stay his fall/assent. She is love; she is the source of inner turmoil; the giver of hope; the pea under the mattress; the sand in the lubricant.
To live is to feel the world like sandpaper on the skin of the hanging man.
No comments:
Post a Comment