September 13, 2011

weekend-readsInscriptions on Wax Tablets

Spring Break I’m sixteen in the Bahamas. A drunk girl on a balcony in a sundress with a piña colada. Burning, I’m about to slip out of my own memory altogether–– still dancing, however, still talking nonsense to a stranger in a salmon- pink suit according to my friends. Memory, like a shoebox full of ocean. This life, like the forgotten plot of a novel: Oh, the protagonist wakes up early. She grows older. But through it all, this body also, full of thought and blood. This body, a heavy bubble. And under it a little net my mother sewed for me out of naïveté and luck. Dream He’s back. The death was faked. Yes, he jumped from the plane, OK, but he had a parachute, and now we’re drinking scotch in his motel room, and I’m afraid. It’s summer and the sky is full of swaying lamps and distant planets. I don’t want to be alone, but neither do I wish to be a memory in a motel room in a dead man’s head. Party I misplaced the invitation, and forgo

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