I was walking home and I went a different way for no reason and as I walked past the school garden I saw this dahlia the size of my palm, with petals that were fuchsia, almost purple, on the outside and pale pink shading to yellow on the inside, and they were full of setting sun shadows and I couldn't move or breathe, lost.
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Today was a pretty hard day, and on the way to the bus stop I walked by a bush that I noticed before on a different pretty hard day. Then, it was covered in tiny purple berries, every shade you can imagine, and now last years' berries have fallen, pushed out by hard green nubs.
"Be warned: it hurts to bloom, each opening a small wound and so delicate." Galactic Rabbit I walked out of the dance, sweaty and exhausted, and the air was like cool water and the first quarter moon was low and yellow like a cat's eye and Mars was huge and high in the sky like a chip of orange topaz.
The studio was quiet and dim and empty, at the end of the night, and K. was telling S. how to shut down the sound system and T. sang as she changed in the dressing room and I sat on the bench near the door, so tired my eyes were closing, and knew that I belonged.
The boards of the porch are hot, and the air is still, and the steps are covered with leaf-shadows and golden threads from the honeysuckle. Then there's a breeze that rattles the leaves in the trees across the street, and I can see that the green honeysuckle berries are turning into shiny red beads.
We were crammed into a tiny hotel room, making shapes with our naked bellies and rolls and thighs and stretchmarks and butts, transmuting something built to destroy us into beauty and joy and wonder and connection, and our skin was just skin.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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