Monday, October 17, 2005

Akedah I (Rough)

I. Quiet

I saw it written in a mishna
printed on truck stop napkins
that Abraham descended from the Mountain
without a son.

Weary eyes stare at a rabbit eared
television set as Saturday Night Live
and Sesame Street drown out awkward
evening silence
with moving pictures of men
in frog suits and
daisies that drip with
grease.

In the blue house,
through windows layered with
years of yellow dust
there's a three year old
who runs between his kitchen
and living room.
He rotates his feet
as if to simulate the steady
pump of bicycle pedals.
Loops about the house
and weaves down a hall
where he sees water colors
of orange and blue butterflies
and fish
beneath apparitions of
mice that whisper when the
sun goes down.

Sits down on five foot
chairs and stares at a plastic
blue shovel and chews at
upside down slices of pizza
and notices faces that
stretch out their lips in slow calisthenics
but don't make a sound
and can't look at each other.
The skin drips down cheek bones
into mayonnaise blobs and
tufts of arm pit hair.
The pizza creates a slow burn
on the tongue and the only thing
audible is a low level hum
almost a groan
that stretches day and night
from the dark bedrooms
where the lights haven't worked for
the past decade
and the occasional whisper,
cockroach feet on
wet leaves.

There used to be a volleyball
and little black and white dog
in the basement by large
white tampon of a water heater,
but stubby fingers that drip of
green finger paint left the door
open and now there's only a
tall yellow crib
stashed on the cement above
the holes that perforate the
stainless steel laundry drain.

At the age of five, the
faces flee the blue house
and its silent ocean
of still objects and
the mumble of mice.
In the front seat a
woman with short curly
brown hair enunciates
loud syllables about
the housing market and
the curious sensation
of dry rubber.
In the back seat,
you're secured beneath
a bar that locks
into a white buckle with a red heart
on it.

The soft brown cushion grows warm as it
retains heat from the sun that
filters in through lightly
tinted windows.
Hands fold and turn red
as blood comes up to the skin
in search of the soft warm
brush of fake velvet.

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