I went down to the mall.
They said they wanted somebody who spoke an extinct language.
They asked me which one I spoke.
I said I forgot.
They said that’s okay.
We might have something for you anyway.
They asked me if I was familiar
with the concept
of reincarnation.
VCCA, February 14, 2009
The visual artist in the studio next door is knitting stainless steel and silk. She’s disabused now, she makes prints of clothes unraveling. A dark skein stained. She’s knitting up the sleeve of care.
Electric ukelele down the hall! A white piano plays itself (we all do, here). It has no hands. The trombone-player has composed a piece starring an interstellar Po’ Boy. He slides us along. He sings us a valentine.
I’m writing flash about my mother, while the writer on the other side of this white wall knits her long narrative of the Great Silk Road.
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