hear: dreamer, by jenn grant
hope: i'll become a professional treasure-finder and paint the insides of my closet fancy-name colours (cadmium, vermillion, xanthe)
i've walked past the basement closet forever and never wondered to look. with time starting to run out, my cold fingers force back the door, crossing rough concrete. new light seeps in and paints shadow angles onto old brick from the twisty undersides of stairways. they lead somewhere once, in the days when this house was still a home. a dusty suitcase is sleeping away from the walls, now forgotten by the invisible arms that carried it down to this closetcave a long long time ago. it has grown the same elephant grey as stale air, crumbling wood, potato sacks, semi-darkness.
i edge forward, lacing my way between slow-rusting water pipes. and now there is no time. i am close and the case is the right size and looks the weight of a record player, one of the portable kind i've always wanted. i can imagine giving my hand to the handle, carrying the player upstairs, wiping the dust clean. i can slip one of the silent lps leaning against my bookshelf onto the spindle, fingertips guiding the needle into the sharp grooves of sound. the speakers crackle and hiss at first, then come clear like early morning voices.
i flick open the latches, holding my breath because everything reeks of old. inside -- mildew damp lining, lumpy boxes of kraftdinner and handfuls and handfuls of fruitsnacks. the suitcase is overfilled with every flavour: cherry, blueberry, applecranberry, wildberry, orange banana strawberry. the bright wrappers slide through pirate fists like smooth, lonely treasure. they are plastic and rich.
i edge forward, lacing my way between slow-rusting water pipes. and now there is no time. i am close and the case is the right size and looks the weight of a record player, one of the portable kind i've always wanted. i can imagine giving my hand to the handle, carrying the player upstairs, wiping the dust clean. i can slip one of the silent lps leaning against my bookshelf onto the spindle, fingertips guiding the needle into the sharp grooves of sound. the speakers crackle and hiss at first, then come clear like early morning voices.
i flick open the latches, holding my breath because everything reeks of old. inside -- mildew damp lining, lumpy boxes of kraftdinner and handfuls and handfuls of fruitsnacks. the suitcase is overfilled with every flavour: cherry, blueberry, applecranberry, wildberry, orange banana strawberry. the bright wrappers slide through pirate fists like smooth, lonely treasure. they are plastic and rich.
5 comments:
Fascinating!
Focused kleptomaniac?
Doting mother worried about scurvy?
Record-player theft gone wrong?
perhaps a committed fruitarian spent an entire year confiscating everyone else's fresh produce. fruits, vegetables and fruit leathers were confiscated and replaced with non-harvested foods, such as kraftdinner. which begs the question -- do fruitarians eat wheat?
must look into this.
Or hoping to pay tuition by creating:
- The Fruit Leather Cookbook OR
- Student Dies on Diet Hot Doc OR
- Edible-Sex-Toy Booth at Market
i love your blog! Nice pics and thoughts. keep it up.
well, thank you! compliments from the poet himself are praise indeed.
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