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Bethesda then, the girl who knows Pi to forty places falls asleep, and as she does she fingers the gold flake, the gold key, and when she wakes up everyone loves her. It is 4 AM in Paris. Local time. The news from the world comes in however... creosote, lipo, whatever it is that they are advertising between songs. Someone gets surgery but they don't say where. She should visit her aunt in Spain? Love a bullfighter? She gets it all down in her notepad somehow. Until the drama is alreadybreaking up, already fading, there's la Tour Eiffel, les Champs-Elysées, Notre-Dame, le Louvre... Oh it feels like coming home, the trains run so late. |
And
from there the entire face swells, and the split between her left incision and the right is a little sore; her gums start to bleed. She takes the pill they gave her for this. If she was ever in a dark room... If she was ever getting there by a dark man... Oh, that's what she forgot to say... the local story like an audition... No he doesn't light up like a lamppost... No he doesn't have five seconds... moving too far behind her the limbs for real now... No he doesn't disappear when she closes her teeth. She forgets the language of heaven but she remembers the algebra. The whole body turns in on itself, turns, and especially the eyes. |
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David Ayers lives in Atlanta, Georgia with
his wife and three children. He is the prose editor for Avatar Review
and current president of the IBPC, the InterBoard Poetry
Community. His poetry has appeared in Snow Monkey,
Eclectica, Del Sol Review, Melic Review, and can we
have our ball back? For more information visit
his blog.
Poems © David Ayers 2005-2006
www.mipoesias.com © MiPOesias Magazine
2000-2006.
You are reading Volume 20, Issue 1. A Menendez Publication.
