the indian:
she seems so out of place
tiptoeing down your staircase
banister.
it wasn't so long ago
that her hair,
once in braids,
extended from the flat of your bed
to the floor
spiraling there
in an insanity of crazed circles.
but that was years ago,
hundreds maybe.
now she just balances,
perfectly,
walking up and down
until you're sick of her.
she is always in the way
& the constant creaking
keeps you from sleeping.
how long has it been
since shes spoken
one warm word?
or one cold word
for that matter.
she's just on repeat..
here she comes again.
"will you stop now?"
you plead, but she continues,
eyes intent on nothing really.
she has nothing better to do
than to provide for you this torture.
when you touch your hand
to the hem of her skirt,
when you move
to shove her from her perch,
your hand, once again,
passes right through her.
she is not red,
like they say,
but rather golden.
her cheeks are high,
her teeth shine with a white
that's heavy on the eyes
compared to her skin.
& she never stops smiling.
what is she waiting for?
is it the moon?
is it the man that took her away
when she was only 7
to that desert cabin
she dare not remember?
is it the memory
of that dead mountain pass
that filled with snakes
when the dam was released
when she was only 13
as she watched
as all of her memories
became an empty lake,
a place to keep the fish
that would never feed her people.
it reminded her of something
that her grandfather once told her,
that, "the way of of heaven
is a vast net
& that although it's mesh is wide,
it catches everything."
her true name is a hundred colours,
but you will never know that. |
Submission Name: the indian
