Thursday, November 10, 2005

posted by katy @ 11:06 AM   1 comments

1 Comments:

At 4:15 PM, Blogger zaque said...

Vida

It is the middle of November and the leaves haven’t changed.
The maples are green with chlorophyll, branches still covered in foliage.
The birds haven’t flown south, and there is no frost to scrape
from my windshield glass. It is the middle of November and I am

lost in Texas. The crows, the grackles, they watch me as I drive past
their electric wires. There are hundreds of them. All talking, all looking
for food and stretching their wings—the wires sink under the weight
of them. There is no reason to leave. It is the middle of November

and I am enraptured by a girl. I think about the way her irises change.
Dance different shades of brown like a falling leaf, when she looks this way
and that, when she looks at me. She makes me miss home. I shout to the birds,
hoping to make them fly. Watch them soar south. It is the middle of November

and the birds just sit there. Stretched up and down First Street as if there
is nowhere to go. No magical “South” is waiting for them. This is home,
this is life and nothing else matters. Not even the past. Not even the snow
storms that covered me in Missouri. It is the middle of November

and everything is different. I pull up to her apartment and knock on the door.
I wonder if she is waiting, her hair still wet from the shower, her body loosely
wrapped in Wal-Mart pajamas. I wonder if she’ll bury my face into her neck.
If I will tell her secrets. It is the middle of November when she opens the door.

And she is home.

 

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