Memories of YouShe doesnt like memories.
When she remembers the past (I am five years old and you smile at me, laughing) it is happy and her heart constricts in her chest because it is past, it is then, it is not now, and she doesnt want to go closer in time to now.
Because she is twelve (thirteen this year, old enough for love, I know it, I know it), and she will say to him, I like you.
Because she thinks that he wont react kindly if she uses love instead of like (because Mama says I am too young for love, and maybe he is, but Im not).
Thats why she doesnt want to go to the past. Its too far from now, and shouldnt she start over?
She thinks of the future, sometimes (I am seventeen and you walk past me, not seeing my tentative smile) and she wants more than ever to stay here, to stay in the now, where he is, where he wont see her unless she steps forward an
wordspill: she in the snowShe didnt leave any tracks.
Maybe she did, he thinks, and he didnt see them, because the snow had been blowing around for nearly all night, but he is sure she had been beside him until morning, a cold presence in his arms, until she left, leaving the hole to be filled with a milder cold, of the weather.
His mare is dead. He remembers saying to her, when she appeared to him, Put her out of her pain. Please. He couldnt bear the weak whinnying anymore, had to turn away from the horrible sight of backwards-bent legs, had to stop himself from crying out at the sight of his poor mare.
Her lips (rose red, blood red) had arranged themselves in a smile that did not reach her eyes. We dont usually take horses.
(We. Why we? Hed always been taught that what she was, what she must have been, was singular.)
Please, he said, and knelt down in front of her.
She chuckled, and bent down to chuck him under the chin, looked hi
wordspill: glassI wish you wouldnt do this to yourself.
I pick up the glass on the floor, take the frame down.
I rinse the blood off each shard, set them back inside the frame,
Trying to salvage whats left of you.
Your frozen smile in the mirror, your glinting eyes.
I grew my hair out for you.
I loved the way you would brush it, like it was water, or silk, that was attached t your head.
You said, a boy should keep his hair short.
But a girls hair is long.
Your hair is long.
How am I to see you anymore if my own hair is not long?
I still remember the night when I came home early
And found you curled on the bathroom floor.
You were already spotted with blood,
Lyuing in a pool of it,
And half your face was crijson.
I kissed you, hugged you held you, dobbing,
But your heart had already stopped.
It took so long to grow my hair like yours, after that.
I need to see you again, my love, my sister.
Come back to me,
Let me see you, your rose lips and your fair cheeks,
But the perso
duty and loveI was shaken.
I wont love you, she said, but I wont hate you, either.
I have no reason to say yes, she said, but I have no reason to say no, either.
I love his voice, she said, and I love her music, but theres nothing I love about you.
Theres nothing you hate about me, either, I added to her sentence, since her words should balance themselves out.
No, she agreed. But Ill do my duty by you. I promise.
Because I must. Because of family. Because it is our parents who want this. Because there is no reason for me to say no.
And she didnt love me, but I loved her, and she would do her duty by me and no less.
She loved his voice, and loved him as he loved her- platonic love between friends, and no more.
She loved her music, and loved her as she loved her- a sisterly bond, and nothing more, nothing less.
She would do anythi
wordspill: seasons and weatherThe summer sun was hot on his back. He was alone in the court, the basketball pounding, being maneuvered around imaginary opponents. Lay-up, rebound, jump shot, slam dunk. He played ever harder, ever faster, his determination and passion to win burning ever hotter, ever brighter. He was sweating, a result of the heat and his constant exertions combined over many hours.
He would beat them. Hed beat them all. He wouldnt let anyone defeat him, ever again. Not Kiyota, not Rukawa, not even Sendoh. Nor even the as yet unknown opponents of the Interhighs.
After all, he was a genius.
In autumn the wind was strong, and cold. He didnt bother much about it; his clothing and his constant motion kept him warm. He had to get this right, get everything right, every inch of movement, of the power he held within himself. This was his last year to prove himself. Two years- two years- wasted, for arrogance. How could he have allowed himself to slide so far?
wordspill: transitionsShe sat up in her bed, and stood, and felt herself, probing at the sudden wetness between her thighs. Her fingers came up sticky and, in the silver moonlight, dimly red.
So she was no girl, now. No, now she was Woman, with all the responisibilties, priviliges and prestige afforeded her. Thus it was.
She calmly wrapped herself up, cleaned up her bed and made her way to her parents bedside to wake her mother.
When her mother awoke, blearily disoriented and then irritated at being pulled away from the arms of Morpheus, she was surprised and pleased to discover that her daughter had joined her in the sorority of womanhood. But she could not remain in the house any longer- while she bled she was too pure, too clean, to remain in this humble house. The elder woman dressed quickly and , taking her daughter by the hand, led her outside, into the dark and cloudy starless night, through the newly unfamiliar paths and byways of the village, and out to the womens lodge.
Tapping the doo
I pick each word, weigh its syllables,
compare, contrast, decide, write down,
reread, cross out, and rewrite.
The significance of a word, of its tense, of its placement,
never escapes me.
I pause, think a bit on the next line,
rolling variations, rhymes and half-rhymes and no-rhymes
in my head,
eventually looping the letters onto the page.
Slowly, laboriously I go about my work,
and hope, ultimately, to get across my message
to my faceless reader.
Im reading my work.
Each word bears its own memory-
even the scribbles, the way the handwriting
doodles and waves about,
tell myself of my state of mind.
I think a little longer,
pick up the pen, and
here, there, everywhere and nowhere-
until I have satisfied myself.
Finally I reach for the keyboard.
Im reading someone elses work.
Its words are written in a computer font,
regular, even-spaced, readable.
Any strikethroughs are the authors own
wordspill: six more daysAll the day she was curled up, asleep, and was she even aware of the time? Hardly likely. Shed been up all night, drunk out of her mind, dancing her joy and ecstasy blatantly for everyone to see. She had waited so long for this celebration, her 25th birthday, for a chance to enjoy herself for once in her perpetually work-filled life. Had she really cared what went on as she went through her duties? No- only the Day had been her priority, only the Day had been in her mind.
A kiss, a stroke, grinding, bumping, with anyone, anyone at all, who was near, who wanted to see her, touch her, who wanted her. For this, the day where she could lose herself in Desire, Delirium, Delight.
Now she woke, and she had not the courage to raise her head from her pillow. Her bed was empty and cold, except for the slight warmth from her own body heat- she did regret that little mistake, drinking so much that she had to discard the idea of sex for that night. Of all the pleasures an