by Amy Catanzano
My lines keep falling through the false floor. We pick ourselves
up, one by one, plucking the green from the pine. Some feathers
are as sharp as needles; others open their tips—in reverse.
There was a keyshop on the corner of main and mimic. You would
visit at regular intervals, describing the treetops. You kept telling a
story about when you lost your substitute for writing. Something
doubled as an enchanted lake.
Quick bursts of tears. The tears surrounded me like feathers. In
their abundances they looked like clouds. You were kind and built
a tributary. We ushered my tears into the lake. Yet even years later
they felt out of place among the plant life.
It is true that in a sense I have been overly concerned with the
behavior of waves. I am constantly trying to retain my basic tear-
Let There be Love!
She lives in one of the crystal petals of the constellation.
In a wing she called starfish.
And in the multiple arms, or bodies when her eyes were open, along with all the others of the stone sea.
The sky, a hundred mirrors, sets once every ten days until the eleventh day when it grows. The waves came in lost languages.
The starfish looked like a country.
The official version omitted everything that didn’t glow.
She lives on the borderland, which is itself one of the feathers on the wing; she uses the pink most frequently but also the indigo and the dreaming blue.
The collar bone is always made from the most delicate shells, having been collected from long walks holding hands in the novel.
She enjoys pockets of creature comforts, handmade shawls made from unspeakable patterns back when the costume designers were open for business.
Every wall is decorated with her favorite planet.
The planets spin between worlds as ghosts.
The wing is spinning on someone else’s wall; everything but her favorite planet dissolves.
Nothing is impermanent, so when she wakes, the planets wake, too.
The sun moves easily through the stone sea; it flies assuredly through the mirror sky.
It hovers over golden skyscrapers. The people drop pearls from their eyes.
She picks up the pearls and drives to the sea, where she tries to skip them like rocks.
They roll in her hands, collapse into the waves, get caught in the crevices, vanish down impossible fissures…
Eventually they coalesce under the water in luminous patches.
After several months people go to look for their pearls. They begin with day trips but eventually stay overnight in the undersea reefs.
Each person is an explorer.
Innumerable discoveries are made.
Some discoveries are made into lockets.
Some prompt people to move.
Some discoveries heal the passage of time, but then another discovery is made and time is thought to be without passage. Thoughts require healing.
Some discoveries take years to accept.
Some are immediately forgotten.
Some are offered to friends as something else.
Some are only visible above the sea.
Some discoveries exist for just a moment.
Some make exploring easier, faster, more fulfilling.
Some can be whatever you want.
I am reading one now.