Zoe’s Light-Fingered Escape
Zoe, lifelong friend, needs help to decipher, then skirt
mud holes in her dream. What does it mean—grilled
chicken breasts, near burned, yet tasty, slipped in mire?
She insists on restart. No meringue (Ditch the pie!)
unless it peaks. No harangue either. Not a word.
Too old for reproach, fights—except the good one.
She clicks forward messages about privatization or rape
of city schools; the Taliban, its delete of women’s rights,
command for yellow strips sewn on Hindis’ shirts, stitches
that shift sun’s color to muck, make gut leak. It tears fabric
from her heart. How to lean whole muscle into this world?
Unmuddy, discard enough so ocean yet gleams
with krill. As fast as she lets go, she collects. She laughs:
how simple her life wants to be—sharing for all she is worth
an alive, strives-to-be-clean message, to lists of nearest dear.
She gasps for air, cleared space. More than the city grants.
Room for factories smoke-stacked upon stack, oil tanks, rigs.
But city skyline spurts phallically and row houses squash
to the ground. Parks neglect. Billboards yammer. Where is one
quiet, un-gas-fumed café? Tough-tempoed tin music, roughly
scrapes ear. Who can hear the soft, alone-talk between friends?
Noise, dust-clad sky almost wear her down, close in on her.
This once open landscape now crammed—makes option,
return near-religion. Not cloistering, she sprints into the night air,
wrapped in a rose print shawl.
She fingers the light mohair—warm, ready
to dance the tango. |
