Washita (2014)
“A wrenched solitude, like skin at dawn among the stones.
The smell of burnt sawdust after rain, the chains in the mill quiet at last.
You pause as the words veer down a narrow tunnel and you write: there was the woman who bared her breasts when you were twelve, delivering the paper to her each winter morning, her lost gesture, and now sixty years later trying to understand the contradictions of loneliness.
The cup of thick cocoa, hot and steaming, she had made for you.
You set t...he cup down carefully on the pine table, pale steam rising.
I’m sorry, you said, your voice not yet broken, the changes still to come.
Ah, but she is far away and surely dead, or nodding in some ward where men can’t hurt her anymore.MoreLess
The smell of burnt sawdust after rain, the chains in the mill quiet at last.
You pause as the words veer down a narrow tunnel and you write: there was the woman who bared her breasts when you were twelve, delivering the paper to her each winter morning, her lost gesture, and now sixty years later trying to understand the contradictions of loneliness.
The cup of thick cocoa, hot and steaming, she had made for you.
You set t...he cup down carefully on the pine table, pale steam rising.
I’m sorry, you said, your voice not yet broken, the changes still to come.
Ah, but she is far away and surely dead, or nodding in some ward where men can’t hurt her anymore.MoreLess
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