Monday, June 20, 2011
In the silence and the sun she ate one cucumber, one cashew, and broke off one small piece of cheese. She took three books from her table and read one poem from each book. All of the one note, one beat, singular actions were leading up to something more. She'd know it when it arrived. Patience. But the noise in the hallway did not allow it. It howled, smelled of burnt rubber, and bounced off the base of her door. It demanded her attention. She stood before the mirror and saw her mother. The sun moved south. Fragments beckoned.