ONE FLASH, ONE POEM – Kyle Hemmings

Posted: February 22, 2012 in Fiction, Flash, Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

CITY OF LOVE #8

She would cut the boy, in a manner of speaking, from all drawstring, umbilical cord, poly or sisal twine without any loose ends of longing. Zugschnur. Cordón. Biodegradable was a must. The instructions. Die Anweisungen. Walk around the earth without looking back and until you return to me. In places out of reach, hunters with an acute sense of burn and scar, monkeys with allergies to plastic trees, tried to adopt the boy. He never said Good-bye or thank you for the cooked snakes. Through monsoons and Kamkatcha winters, he walked past the blindness of others. Under a celestial shift, another tilt of the universe, he returned to the woman. They were now the same age. He said I recognize your hands but you are not my mother. She tied his hands and tongue, asked him what he had seen. He struggled to speak. Like what the father of the boy had once done to her, she walked away. One night, in a town far away, she looked up from her 10th story window. A single star, same location, shone over her apartment. It never went away. Over time she grew paranoid that it might crash, perhaps during a dream where there were no ropes or trees, and she’d be childless forever.

STICKY FLOORS

after 17 years of
being waxed to sticky floors
of negotiating your old parts
from pawnbrokers behind screens
of swallowing deli demons whole
in their candy wrappers,
you still haven’t cleaned your room.

your mother calls out
behind yellow soul walls, cracked need.
she says: bring me a cup of tea
i’m still dying at 27 fathoms deep.
you feel that part of her
inside you—so invisibly alone.

In your rabbit mania
you search for brooms
you dial a prostitute named Wicked Alice
you need a shot of touch
you’ve grown addicted to dust
to what can no longer reflect
off your sticky floors.

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