So this breezy mystery bruise is also earth’s! She reads on; the yellow gulls arc and link at her breast; winter cracks the whites of her eyes, strange shapes egress! Too easy to forget, and in no less than human fashion, grief leaks its combination. But she cries, “not for what I did not understand but that it was meant for me alone.” He thinks of the sparrow on heels of lead, the black spill of elevators and ice. She wipes and weeps to her taste, but how fast, too fast, things rise! The meadows they made once, tops, over which chance angles light a clover. “That thicket horsetail rain which I polished as a child stands up to me now.” His eyes do not bulge and yet, are large. He tests himself, a man who stands in the rain of bone marrow, in the rain of bone, in the rain. And the rain stands on end like him; it falls in tatters for her joy; on a horse too inhaled by the distance peppered with pure mills, in a letter now too far to be sent in haste.
Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.