Friday, December 7, 2007
She presses down the path, hoping the snow will silence the bees in her head.
The dog pulls, her arm trails, and she thinks that all her life she has been in want of a leash. To be led.
She closes her eyes, and wonders why this should be.
The dog lunges for a rabbit, and she tumbles, planting her face in the snow. She starts to rise, but tucks back down, folding herself over the leash to catch its momentum. The icy needles are emboldening, and she lies there, waiting for the hive in her cheek to grow sluggish, and numb. She waits a long time. The dog is anxious, his paws swarming with bees.
Flipping onto her back, she notes some simple things:
The light looks pulled, like tungsten.
Snowflakes have dusted her lashes.
Snow has a sound.
So do her lashes.
That tree is a pulpy nerve.
Her body is a pulsing nerve.
And the dog has ears like pup tents.
The woman's heart pools warm honey.
She picks up the leash, the dog dances, and a line interprets their joy.
Together, the woman and dog push deeper into the snowy, snowy woods.
Into the white noise.
sweetening the tonic chord,