Synesthete (WE-1.23.14 “just because challenge”)

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on January 28, 2014 0 Comments

(posted just because I felt like writing a prose poem today)

  

I finished the letter last week.  It took two months before I believed in it.  It said, there is a field in the distance, a place with wet blades of grass convincing the earth to tilt and blow itself against the sun.  

 

Let it taste green.     

Actually, I started the letter thirty-two years ago, but never let on. Once I found a piece of it stuffed inside a window sill.  That was 1986.  It kept the rain from seeping through ill-fitted edges of glass. Surprisingly, there was a lot of talk about green, wet fields that far back. I considered leaving it wedged between the brick and wood.  If I pulled it free, the glass might have fallen out. It might have lost its flavor.  But that didn’t happen.     

Have you kept your fingernails short and manicured?  

 

I thought of you at the barbershop, sitting in the red and white chair.  The barber couldn’t stop talking.  It was a good time to listen.  It’s always a good time for listeners. My entire thought had the scent of 4711 mixed with talcum powder.  It’s still 1986. 

 

I traveled north, toward winter. 

 

Don’t worry about global warming, or the occasional dead whale for that matter.  Let heat and death pile up until they drink each other.  I never really gave a damn how short your fingernails were except that night driving along 101 when the Santa Ana hit. I wanted slick blades of grass to race from my tongue and bump into your lips, but every word came out a wasteland, fogging the windows, blurring what little there was to see.

 

I still nibble from that desert once in a while. 

 

I don’t believe in words anymore.  After all, it’s the 21st century and green pastures are so far away they’re merely pin-points mixed into the air, floating like whispers too warm to last.  That’s it.  I’ve tasted your whisper and mailed the last letter this morning.  Just keep listening.  I know you’re out there…

 

I dream your signs into stories.

I decide the color their eyes take on.    

 

(c) Tovli 2014

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