I sit wedged between the shantung clung to my arm and a cat into my side, dazed. I rocked shut the outside, preferring the rattles from the A/C. I vanished into the summer, the rain—a moment where my arm wasn’t in a brace; I’d call it death in a shantung, but that might be melodramatic. I don’t need that.
The sun garden path, an endless horizon, as I was carried onto the grass. After falling, I chose to lie down in the middle of the road, no earnest sense except shaking, and children on bikes silently passing by. I may have shed a tear if I were alone, and until I was stripped of grievous reason I put myself in a reality equaled only to repudiation. The world in its deepest corner effused my bone.
Only the sand left
when I was a child, a dream,
holding my father’s hand.
There is only now an ache in my arm resting in a brace. A thematic that pains me now is poetry. I elapse in it until I can’t; almost like withdrawals. Now it’s over and I can no longer, at this moment in time, dip into it as I once have. If I were to be honest with you, I’ve been slowly feeling this way since last summer. A blood-flow of poems in sentiment I most liked to indulge in, now feels empty as the bedrock of men. I imagine the azure is brighter right now, not a murmur or a thread; yet that alone dims the air I breathe in memory—fragmented and silent. Maybe I wrote this more for myself than for you. I don’t know.
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Written for the dVerse prompt 4/26/21: Write a haibun that expresses the present moment.