the past
We put our ears on limestone fossils to hear the
ocean floor. Speech had gotten stuck in our big steak dinner. Our town could
dream. The creek stretched out a long name. Each fossil carried a shout of joy,
a mind to feel hungry with, enough thought to understand stars. All bleached.
All the dogs in town pointed their music at us. We listened. We felt welcomed
in the caves, animal forms slow as clouds. Caves that are really caves can
dream. Up the ridge earth’s wheel got louder. My horse was so tired. How did we
go from the ocean floor to the pony express? We climbed. Invisible Daughter
helped us. Sad of heart from head to foot. The time of stars and ocean
streaked through us, we walked like branchless trees. In deep sleep the past
appeared dead, we could see it in each other but we couldn’t understand. Stars
fell backward in great tides. We watched.
tuesday june 19 1979
We knew Invisible Daughter could flicker awake too.
Somewhere in the trees moon war guns veils dances love all memory light bent
inside light and water voices eyes road hands language all inside trees. We
decided to set a trap. What else could flicker? The road flickered with ghosts
and hoofbeats. We sat still to watch the edges of leaves. The father slid awake
and the mother was everything. We stalked invisible daughter through the
blackberries. Green leaves could flicker into silver. Shadows moved east. Trees
said waves. We needed a wagon to carry what was said through the town. The
creek flickered to its underground family. Stars were fires and fire might be a
ghost and flickered. No one could turn back ever. Our trap was time and it
could trap anything. We built a small fire-in-waiting, altar for a cold ghost
girl. Ghost fire. We surrounded the altar with our hoarded baby teeth. Does the
woods know the earth is round? Are we inside a bubble? Someone lit the fire.
Maybe ghost girl missing a tooth. Then we heard footsteps.
John Colburn is a Minneapolis writer and teacher. More from Invisible Daughter will appear in Altered Scale 1.
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