First the pitiful candle,
the book not quite open.
Leaves they fell silent.
I made a pie.
Little whisps of hair-like steam
freed themselves
up through the ceramic beak of my blackbird.
With all the clean cells in-between us.
The steam spiralled up,
muted,
like the words we didn’t say.
I shuffled where my feet cleaned the floor,
the pitiful stone
where I danced for someone else,
who resonated,
who paid more attention.
I need to find the smallest of words, seek them out and hold them close. I must be careful though, holding them means I must lift my arms and that seems too hard. So I’ll just think about them instead.
I’ll think about stillness and sleep, that’s all. The rain came back today and with its soaking, it washed away part of me, took my feathers and my frills, drenched my ribbons and wet my bows and I’m bedraggled. If I looked up I’d see them, sodden, lying around me but I won’t open my eyes. I still think about them of course, crave them, remember how it felt to move and jingle and shimmer and shine, but not now.
The rain came back today, it saturated me. There’s almost a breeze but not quite. I’ll just sit still for a while and if I breathe soft and slow, if I look down, no-one will know that I am here.
Find her by the canal in her black and white skirt with bells. Find her navigating it all as she jingled, as she smiled.
And there under the August sky, find her leaning up the old Orion, in her black Mary Jane’s and her silk waistcoat.
Later, after chicken salad, no doubt, find her by her candlewick bedspread, chartreuse and tattered but perfect. The only way to end the day.
And in the morning, in the same skirt, find her smile at the bedroom door and make plans to carry her home.
Just find her. Over and over and over again. Always in August, to keep her safe.
Janey L Foster 