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I took my heart out and gave it to a writer made heartless by
fame, someone who needed it to pump blood into veins desiccated by
the suck and roar of crowds slobbering or poisoning or licking up the
red froth they mistake for happiness because happiness looks just like
a heart painted on a valentine cup or tattooed on an arm that has never
held a victim or comforted a hurt friend. I took it out and the space it left
in my chest was sutured tight like the skin of a drum.
xxxx As my own pulse failed, I fell along with a soft shower
of rain typical in this place.
xxxxLying there, collapsed under trees bordering the
mansion of the famous one I saw a butterfly broken by the slam of a single
raindrop on its wings fold and flutter as it hit a pool of water still fighting for
the lift that is its nature. I closed my eyes expecting to dissolve into stars
or lava or a brutal sequoia when the famous writer appeared and leaned
down over me. Lifting my head he put his lips on mine and breathed into
my mouth one word and then another, and another, words upon words then
numbers, then notes. I swallowed it all while my mind filled with language,
measure, music, knowledge.
xxxxThese gifts from the famous writer were so seductive,
so all encompassing they seemed to make a heart irrelevant.
--Toni Morrison
 Aeolith · Fri Sep 19, 2014 @ 09:53pm · 0 Comments |
