THE MURDER MYSTERY (WITH COMMENTARY ON GENESIS 2:23)
It’s a phone ringing in the other room when we’ve not had a landline for years, hello?
It’s the taste of cherries in winter, dark red (almost black) out of when we used to have growing
seasons for such things
What really remains unspoken?
After all,
We know
These days
What presses against the walls on the other side of this young and nocturnally delicate
scavenger dance
I can hear the rain chatter as thin as ambivalently steeped green tea poured from silver pots
When you awake to fading music (only when you notice, otherwise it’s so common as to
disappear like a kind of subliminal hum or gentle tinnitus) and you make up the words to try
and trap it like a firefly in a jar
I swallow the cherries, I spit out the spits/ I swallow the cherries, I spit out the pits: what
matches rhythm with a Spanish pop song whose chorus says, “el corazon es un Gitano / the
heart is a gypsy” well well well
Until the moon goes out . . .
What is that called?
That particular species of déjà vu, the muted swoon of wings in the desert, “the hour of fog / la
hora de la niebla I don’t remember that one
But perhaps
This is a pupal stage
I wonder
If moths reemerge
Remembering only
One kind of light
Glint Literary Journal 