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Fall 2004 |
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Ruth Mark There’s a strange
mixture tonight, silence broken only
by the clicking radiator, the
wind-chimes on the clothes line softly
echoing, cars motoring up and
down the street, a telephone ringing
and ringing in the bowels of
this building. Won’t someone answer?
Beneath my feet the elderly
woman is warming her throat again –
her loud laughter rings through the
night. Entertaining again. Who said old
age equals loneliness? Not in
her book it doesn’t. Upstairs the man
drops something with a thud on his
new wooden floor, our ceiling
vibrates, makes me even more aware that we’re
living in a box. Outside the wind is brewing
up. Its breath deep and resonate makes its own music.
Ruth Mark Your skin, the very
pores, smell of another
far-away place, star anise, moist
and open. Your eyes tell a different
story, you have
seen more of this life than
most. Your hair, tight
braids against your scalp, like
painted ropes, fat tails
leading somewhere. Your body moves
quick and fluid as a gazelle’s, no
energy wasted or sweat spilled.
Economic. But it’s your hands
he loves most with their
expressive fingers painted henna-black. Truly
a thing of beauty. |
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