Monday, September 25, 2006

No other Dream can match his artistry
in counterfeiting men: their voice, their gait,
their face - their moods; and, too, he imitates
their dress precisely and the words they use
most frequently. But he mimes only men...


-Onid

At the time of boiling, no one noticed that we had been missing for a full night. We did not hide, though we escaped the principles of the day. We ignored the sun and chose not to feed our dog (or we did not eat any of the garden). So our skin stayed where it belonged, our hats and scarves still kept us safe, and our horses stayed asleep. And so they boiled without us-- they didn't see our shadows, so they didn't know where we were. Our feet were not too big to let roots grow from them, but not so pink to move our legs. This is why we were buried.

Tonight, the Bishop removed his face and placed all the sadness on me, on my brother. Our bodies mistook the saliva for blood, and we winced at its warmth. My brother was frozen there and forgot how to breathe. The shore kissed my lungs and everyone gathered around to see. To see my blue brother and me. To see who had remembered, who had paid the tax of forgiveness.

So they sent my brother back to the hospital, to sleep.

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