a present for the prompt
She spoke and said it would be effortless. Pulling my skin tighter and straightening my spine, I sat up to correct my posture, effortlessly. She spoke and said her garden was the same as all others. She said the annuals and perennials are fighting the same afflictions and no amount of herself could change that garden into jungle, not even vines running wide and long. Standing there her hands on hips I knew that this was true so I concurred, goodnight is effortless. Good mornings not so much. Good morning comes and brings a longing for a kiss from someone that is pleased to see you alive and moving. I tell her sometimes the kisses and petals open to me from you at night are telling lies to the giant that drives my flesh. I tell her these arms are open and willing, but my heart may be learning the art of seduction is self deception. I feel up her thigh and read Huxley aloud to the sounds of laughter and the newness of old english. Breakfast is potatoes again for the lost resident of Cameroon, the brother they’ve affectionately called chico nigga, the dancer and the seer, the loud fire breathing prophet. It’s one overcooked biscuit for the refugee from Cuba, pretty black muthafucka. Sighing loudly I press and fold this plane, creasing it into origami excuses inspired by indifference.
Her hill is long and iced. It twists and dives deep into a steep impossible. Struggling up it I am reminded that she is a swan young but aging and obnoxious with the duckling years falling into well seasoned creases along her face. She says it is best to forgive and love her regardless. her soft spoken criticism reflects from my own mouth and I forget to remind her that vanilla comes from vanilla beans and that we are eager and able to respond to perceptions or to change them if we start where all thing begin. She invites me to stand in that room praising the snow as it falls. Her presence is welcome as she asks how I’ve spent my time. My eyes are glued to the imagined hours spent in her penthouse and heaven worthy batting cages. My yesterdays are full of driving ranges and the long ball. I tell her that any service to her would be my effort at writing a pillow book on her skin. “Only your new skin,” I say. We are all new everywhere every couple of months and my skin reacts to integrity and faith. I am smiling when she pulls her shirt off revealing those jumbled lines over her heart. She has a maple leaf tattoo that urges me to tap there and cook out all the bitterness.
I called home from across the country finally with a stem of aloe to soothe and protect, to heal and refresh. I called a hot house and learned my destiny is my own private kismet learning new things, growing inches upward, effortlessly.
“Honesty is a vantage point to stand in. Resilience is a gift to curl up to. Your voice is pulling me by the root from the soil of familiarity allowing energy to enter more efficiently, allowing me to linger in longer uninterrupted visits from tribesmen and desert people. Lord I long to return home” — — — -Moses in the wild