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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4238 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Quiet Shape of Stone Treezaa (T.E. Ballard) The dead are keeping me awake. Perhaps It is my grandmother, shadows shifting--the stroke. The way a mouth falls on a face, when it has forgotten, simply forgotten its way home. Monet painted his wife in her shroud, while the body was warm, while the green lilies grew outside, in the pond. He painted. Maybe he is there still, waiting for her to move, the scene to change. A brush, oil, deep blue. My grandmother is singing in the pipes, soft hum of the stove. She is walking through walls. My daughter tells me of four year old fears, rooms that cannot be entered, ghosts in the hall. Windows are covered in frost and I trace the shape of our faces while she licks the cold. We are transparent, translucent. We are almost dead. |
