, ,

(for Glenys)

Gold dust wafting from her barren tear ducts.
Butterflies the color of honesty resting wings
spread open on the edge of naked lips. Her
heart is a sculpture that could come to life
any second, if only to provide a rhythm for
summer gathering its bearings and walking out
the door. She is human nature, the rebellious
middle child of grace, with her wild tresses
cut short evoking a vision of grandeur walking
towards her destiny and realizing that the
cathedral train of her prophecy-edged veil got
snagged on the closing door. Everything is
pulled apart, except for her eyes. As clear as
the weeping of a violin in the middle of
downtown Atlantis. Drowning in blue and the
curse of mirrors. Cutting across the silence
and the fog of memory that romanticizes the
past. Channeling her black swan sensibilities
to coax the impossible out of its hiding place
and persuade it to loathe its chains. With all
the patience of amber drawing its breath from
decomposing wood so it could tell a story with
enough beauty that the pain of death is but a
swift and casual gesture by remembering’s
love-bejeweled hand.

“Angie” by photographer Aga Tomaszek


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