A man walks into a museum in Paris, the Museum of Natural History, to saw a tusk off an elephant- skeleton centuries-older than he’ll ever be, becoming in those early morning hours part of a derelict and inglorious human history, while swallows darn the air in loops, their glinting wings an origami of hushed folds only glimpsed by one vigilant girl, framed as she is within a pane of glass, the door of her heart opening onto a filigreed balcony that keeps her suspended, an unlikely wish about someone not coming back. A man walks. A man walks in to a bar. “Whaddya want?” Dusty continent of desire. Majesty left as ragged meat in heaps for hyenas “laughing” in heat. Who can look away? A man sets rough elbows heavy on the lip of zinc, thumbs each cheekbone so his pointers steeple to catch his brow, shuts eyes, heaves a sigh then slumps to rest an unshaven cheek against the cool, unquestioning bar, as though to sink into what’s most elemental. What’s “natural” about any man making his way alone through empty Left Bank streets carrying not a lovely burnished box of watercolor paints in uniform lozenge-cakes but a chainsaw? The wheeling sky sees all while sleepers sleep, still dreaming in languages long lost when day breaks. The pinking sky sees all, but rarely speaks though someone more Romantic might say it weeps. And the sleepless girl, orphaned by light, the bright tusk of her hopes. The joke no joke, no punch- line, but a gut-punch in plain sight. Copyright © 2015 by Katrina Roberts. Used with permission of the author. |
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