As It Slowly Awakens “Give me in its parcel of hours a slippery, silken forgettable day.” (Moniza Alvi) You stiffen. Then you sigh. Nothing moving now, not for the longest time. It is so quiet that I almost hear your blood slow down and settle to a quiet humming. The low crazed buzzing of a bluebottle reminds me of the ancient rumbling iron beasts: those half-forgotten sweaty mornings of early tank manoeuvres, two or three abandoned fields from where we stayed at my grandfather’s old summer cottage, where the flies that didn’t end up getting caught in the gentle swaying of lacy curtains or stuck to sweating and slowly spinning serpentine ribbons sometimes in the morning walked the skin of oranges (stacked in the cracked, fake Grecian bowl high on the mantelpiece) like lazy astronauts out for a stroll on an alien yet benevolent planet. I watch your hand now as it slowly awakens and sends off a pompously fat and priestly black fly that was gleefully rubbing its legs together over these slow-cooling marshes of sweat on your thigh.
Posted on: Sun, 29 Jun 2014 21:36:19 +0000
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