Now I REALLY know why the caged bird sings!
Mon fils Morgan has bested the cyber stinkers who derailed our site for a few days, and we are back in business. We have about a dozen stories to post that were received before the Ides of March deadline, and this entry by new-comer Andrew Perez is one of them. Here again, poetry and narration reveal their most intimate relationship. Why do I think women rarely say no to this guy? Deciduous for yourself.
I Keep Asking if It’s You
by Andrew Perez
I had killed a flower on our first date. On her steps I stood and she behind a half-open door which drew her gibbous-ed. “Is it you?” my words drunk, fluttered like doves from a cage unlatched. “I think so,” she answered divulging the weightless magnitude of a deciduous moon.
We laughed. For years we lit velvet cigarettes beneath the trees and swapped smoke back and forth from each others’ lungs. But we didn’t call it kissing because what truly is never has a name. Over silken sheets our bodies coalesced, tendered—in a world full of knives.
She performed as dancer, clown, and mistress on and off the stage. Lemons ripened in the branches and jars filled with the bitter pulp forced sweet. In the errand of her absence the soft of the linen bruised my limbs.
Many months later in a concert hall our gazes met. An orchestra named Second Chances thundered while we spiraled like converging binary stars in a milky sea. At arm’s length before crashing she yielded to my right-of-way. An exchange of knowing smiles. But no hellos for which to owe goodbyes were said.
Though we’d collide; she nestled against the pillow of my cartoon heart. We danced, swimming in the cascades of her hair, and on a fallen eyelash I wished this time she would stay. By morning in the ashes of consummated exodus, a butt still smoldering told of her camp. The bite marks would last a little longer, take or leave a scar.
I sought to forget but with each sip as the image blurred the wanting came clearer. Within my dreams I’d invoke some forgotten deity to start again—to be infinitely struck-awed by her lightning—in the stead of a call I couldn’t make.