I cut my hair.
I put it in a bag made of white silk.
Skies succeed one another.
The third one descends upon me.
It’s Wednesday; the day of red carnations.
Your blood vessels kill my dreams like algae blooms kill fish.
From Thursday – why are you one sky ahead of me? – your voice curls in every cell of my body.
The child will be born face up. He will watch the stars on their way to nowhere.
I shudder. My breath heaves. Milky moonlight descends upon my breasts.
On Friday you reply.
The one we’ll make when we meet on Sunday.
My nails dig into my left thigh. My blood smells like carnations. It ought to be still Wednesday. It can’t be Friday. Friday smells like Rose de Grasse d’Or.
What are you talking about? We do not meet on Sundays. I sew clothing on Sundays. In fact, we never meet.
Your voice comes from Monday.
Our child to be. The one who has a bishop as a grandfather. The one you know no other love but ours can bore. The one who will contemplate the stars on their way to nowhere.
I take my hair from the bag.
I start placing it back on my head.
It must be Tuesday.
excerpt from my manuscript Remembrance of Love (working title)
image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)