haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

I just remembered her address was Walled Lake. One recovered there

from an awareness swollen with itself. From which there seemed no peace,

except to spoil all likely sentience. Nixon was about to resign. Her couch

was a beige color, long and tidy as accounts receivable. His face on the TV

had no shine. Complex assignments presently were due for graduate school.

I was alone, between responsibilities that others had. Life ought to have

been funny. Despite holes between what I thought and felt. I am so old now,

younger than I was. The woods, even in summer, appeared gray beneath plush

leaves. Her drapes stayed open to the scenic day. I watched his face recite

what someone wrote for him. His face muscles bruised my history. At that time

I believed an education was a kind of fortress you could use to keep yourself as

safe or sane as needed. Always someone sipped preposterous amounts of fizz.

How did I become this quiet, this elated about simple things? How did I learn

the eloquence of amnesia? Romance languages brush pale lines on my forehead.

To persons half my age who rehearse remaining perfect as they are. Whom

I invite to teach me something.

Cast iron for the morning meal, a splinter from saguaro spine, small bird

lodged between repeat signs

Sheila E. Murphy