A Class

Tonight I warmed my hands in the oven because I wanted to write something lyrical and raw.  I wiped the soot from the face of the woodstove so I could better approximate the fire in its gut.

Last night I traveled to Italy with my father.  He was dressed in a striped pastel suit the muted colors of sleepy dusk.  “Look up!”  I insisted, “Look up.  There is wonder above.”  His eyes sparked and crackled flickeringly.

I press still cold hand to forehead, twirl pencil on page with the other.  Icicle fingers against fat flesh of palm pencil rakes the lined page.  I think about them.

One writes.  She thinks her hands unfeminine, yet uses them enthusiastically and gently to give fresh voice to torrid identity.

One writes about foreign love.  Under its spell, she scripts scintillating stories of warmth.

One writes earnestly and candidly about her obsession with boy bands, sheds tears while writing about torture, and a beloved, whistling teacher’s battle with cancer.

One writes about summery sanctuary.  Seeking solace in fervent imagination, she warns of biting sterility in its bleak absence.

One writes, hauntingly, about piercing images of hellish terror and ardent satire and adeptly explores elusive human nature.

One writes about falling and vexing choices, flight and fancy, catching herself entangled in the adventure of the process.

One writes about friendships changing, evolving, leaving, and intensifying and evokes a strong, empathetic response in compassionate readers.

One writes about intense faith and reveals more about forgiveness and incandescent song.

One writes about the complicated dance between the impassioned moon and the chilly sun and in her essay creates wanton poetry about insanity.

They chorus their untold experiences.  Their reality.

A pause.  An addendum.  A child observes, “’algerba’ is easy.  That’s cool, right?”  Sticky words catch roof of mouth.  The recollection of last night’s dream haunts still.  A father turns, stoops reluctantly over his new shiny walker and shuffles, haltingly

away.

2 comentarios sobre “A Class

  1. Señora Nocton,
    ¡Usted es muy talentoso! Yo quiero tu perspectiva en este pieza. ¡Las palabras usted usaste fuiste fenomenal! Yo espero leer más de tu escritura.

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