He woke from his uncomfortable dream of her and walked to the window.
The velvet-curtained aorta suffered a burn where a matchstick flicked off his hand.
Some fell on the curly durrie perch near the twin windows and died untimely.
She haunted the other broken glass window, stuck halfway on gum from a hazy night. He imagined her there, looking out.
He carefully picked a thick strong match and attacked the sandpaper toxistrip. It raged alive suddenly and flew away with a surprised, awkward flutter. A few matches then fluttered away , snapped alight and he imagined they flew forever fireflies, enchanted the blind and he would one day watch over them as they died in his palms,
When the last skinny one was out, the nearest whistling tree suddenly caught fire and went hoarse. He lost his voice after an hour, his ash screams settling tired on the wet, dry-leaf soil.
The spokes turned, the strings squealed and the crows welcomed the darkness. They were not afraid of being invisible, their caw wielded with pride, between their beaks, ready to stab anyone who forgot they were a shade lighter than dark. He had a scar where one had driven a caw between his talons.
Secrets are invisible too, he thought, but like old tattoos they stung, about a time when they were freshly sheened black.
A few wisps of feather slipped out from under his collarbone, which he disguised as willowy hair. A dented mole on the bridge of his nose, that remained defiantly. Flitting eyes. The ornithological fixtures.
He shrugged off the time he leaned off that window and flew, to circle the nearest whistling tree, find a perilously thin branch, perch it perfectly and watch her.
He looked down and leaned, his weak, trembling hands gripping the cold sill, all that was left now of the tree was crisp, crinkled barkskin, eight arms outspread like a final plead, the silence of a dead whistle ringing.
A burnt cloud, he imagined, would have crisp, black skin too. He imagined he could crack it with his fore nail screeching across its curves. He wondered what they could carry, these burnt clouds, wispy feathers and raging fireflies.
He looked up to the nearest one, the sixteenth enamel shined black cloud and imagined.
She sat perched, on one of its twin windows, in defiant splendour, flitting eyes shining, the sun catching her beak. She leaned elegantly and swung out irreverently,stretching and spreading a smooth unravelling.
Her downy feathers slowly began whistling carefully.
They whistled slowly an elegy for the ashen leaves,
the crinkled clouds
and the once raging fireflies
that burned slow his palms in their death.
The velvet-curtained aorta suffered a burn where a matchstick flicked off his hand.
Some fell on the curly durrie perch near the twin windows and died untimely.
She haunted the other broken glass window, stuck halfway on gum from a hazy night. He imagined her there, looking out.
He carefully picked a thick strong match and attacked the sandpaper toxistrip. It raged alive suddenly and flew away with a surprised, awkward flutter. A few matches then fluttered away , snapped alight and he imagined they flew forever fireflies, enchanted the blind and he would one day watch over them as they died in his palms,
When the last skinny one was out, the nearest whistling tree suddenly caught fire and went hoarse. He lost his voice after an hour, his ash screams settling tired on the wet, dry-leaf soil.
The spokes turned, the strings squealed and the crows welcomed the darkness. They were not afraid of being invisible, their caw wielded with pride, between their beaks, ready to stab anyone who forgot they were a shade lighter than dark. He had a scar where one had driven a caw between his talons.
Secrets are invisible too, he thought, but like old tattoos they stung, about a time when they were freshly sheened black.
A few wisps of feather slipped out from under his collarbone, which he disguised as willowy hair. A dented mole on the bridge of his nose, that remained defiantly. Flitting eyes. The ornithological fixtures.
He shrugged off the time he leaned off that window and flew, to circle the nearest whistling tree, find a perilously thin branch, perch it perfectly and watch her.
He looked down and leaned, his weak, trembling hands gripping the cold sill, all that was left now of the tree was crisp, crinkled barkskin, eight arms outspread like a final plead, the silence of a dead whistle ringing.
A burnt cloud, he imagined, would have crisp, black skin too. He imagined he could crack it with his fore nail screeching across its curves. He wondered what they could carry, these burnt clouds, wispy feathers and raging fireflies.
He looked up to the nearest one, the sixteenth enamel shined black cloud and imagined.
She sat perched, on one of its twin windows, in defiant splendour, flitting eyes shining, the sun catching her beak. She leaned elegantly and swung out irreverently,stretching and spreading a smooth unravelling.
Her downy feathers slowly began whistling carefully.
They whistled slowly an elegy for the ashen leaves,
the crinkled clouds
and the once raging fireflies
that burned slow his palms in their death.
