Wednesday, June 2, 2010

dissection and the anatomy of june

One day, it rained. It poured on panes and the footpath and all the spaces composed from the accumulation of cracks could not handle the volume from the accumulation of water and any creature hiding underneath emerged and bathed rather than be drowned. Some soft things would squirm their way back into the fertile-fragranced dirt, and others still would be salted, for that was what science was this year. She had snuck the shaker from the table. She watched it snow in another boy's hand, wondering if she could be held morally accountable for the dabs of shiny puddle, patterning something abstract. She was without decision and she continued the walk to the fountain, for a sip, under the covering that kept her from today's leaking sky. She had her turn and walked back the exact way she came, for she was too bored for even the walk all the way around. A group had stopped several meters ahead gathered around water runoff. Flow through the gutters was interrupted by a crack, still unattended since there had been no rain since a spell in September. Each hand stretched forward. And her hand wanted to stretch itself forward. And her hand wanted to touch. And her hand was the hand caught. Everyone's hands that were not her hand shot to their sides and dried uniformly on uniformed pants and tights. Her hand, once seized, was turned around quickly, guilty with droplets still wet. Marched back to the room, she was salted.

No comments:

Post a Comment