a-catherineWhisper

American

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SuspensionThe clouds had been threatening thunder for days. They rolled in the sky with their malice building every moment that they continued to hold in the rain. Stretched below them, an endless sea going as deep as forever could go long. It was as clear as glass with only the slightest ripple signaling its deceptive appearance. Below the surface, energy wound through every molecule in a tumultuous and festive rhythm. If you could touch the water's face, you could *feel* the pulse of life through your fingertips. / But I could not touch it. / Between the sea and the clouds, moments were still and sat heavy like the oppressive heat that fills a humid, hazy afternoon in late summer. Thoughts moved… slower. Sounds wrapped around you, taking long enough for you to realize it was happening before it was through.

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ContrastHe stepped out the door and From behind the door, she put one hand / looked towards the face to the glass and watched him / behind him. burn into the night.

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Winter BreathLook at me / Take my hand / Bring me outside

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WingsThere’s a constant, quiet *fump fump fump* coming from the space where my muscles fold into my flesh. I feel it along my arms and chest, underneath my cheeks. The pattering wraps around my thighs and crawls across my stomach. It’s desynchronized; it’s chaotic. It makes my skin feel as though it’s stretched just too tightly across my insides. And the *fump fump fump* speeds up. My skin is like tissue paper, and as the rhythm reaches a frenzied pitch, it begins to tear from within. Out of my forearm appears the slimmest, black appendage. It slips through like a straw through the lid of a cup. I lift the hem of my shirt and a fissure alongside my navel reveals a single wing beating frantically. Panic twists like ivy towards my throat as more splits open in my skin and the existing tears grow wider, but more than that - I am alive. I take one last great gasp of air, reveling in that feeling of life - that electricity that sparks its way through every cell in my body – and my skin loses the last of its papery integrity and ten thousand butterflies hurl themselves out into the world. Each wing is unfurled completely and the *fump fump fump* is now a chorus of twenty thousand delicate membranes embracing freedom. The insects push at their new boundaries and fly, scattered, to the long lost corners of the universe. And as the last spark flutters away from the epicenter, that place where I once had a body finally finds the silence. The stillness. And where I once had eyes, I close them. When they open once more, I am bathed in the sun. I am stretched across a leaf. I am fanning my wings.

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ShellI squeeze my eyes closed, tilt my head to the side, and jump. / That itch in my ear has been growing. For weeks. For years. Like water stuck after sinking below the surface of a pool. I rub my ear to my shoulder. No relief. / I jump again.

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IIL and ChangeYesterday, I plucked up the planet and dropped it into a colander. I shook it through, taking out all the ships and lifeboats, the yachts and canoes. Putt-putt boats and blow-up rafts. Every life vest and floating device was carefully removed. / Today, I cried for twenty-four years. The oceans began to rise and the coastal towns fell off the shorelines. Everyone fled the coasts, but it did not matter. After twenty-four years the world was covered and all things green with life were drowned and flooded. When my tears slowed, I scooped out each eyeball, wrung them out, and then placed them back into their sockets. / Tomorrow, the water will recede for twenty-four years before I find any solid ground. When I do, I will crawl out from the sea and let the sand scrape at my body. The tide will wash over me until I am sprawled out, absorbing the rays on my speck of land in this ocean-world.

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Excerpt from "To The Blind Man" - Feb 2013Like the broken wing of songbird, my head hangs limply about my shoulders. Bowed in resignation, I pay homage to powers I can no longer resist nor deny. Reluctantly, I allow my skin to soak in this broken, gray home I’ve built for myself. Like bathwater that’s gone cold, it offers no comfort; and like a tree’s sap, it clings to me. / My health has been stolen from this young body. I have submitted; the flame of fight died long ago and the memory of its light has finally sputtered out. With true darkness comes a plague baring the pit that grows in my gut and the lump that chokes the air from my throat. And as my lungs catch fire, they scream for my heart – crying out for help. A heart full of blood to put out the flames that lick their way up soft, pink tissue, but there is no relief to be found. There is no heart full of blood, only a note that says, “Looking for greener pastures. I’ll be sure to send a postcard.”

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