A young woman walked against the traffic, downhill, the breezy orbit of her scarf—the swept springs—unconceiling her, a sonorous swerve, ringlets brunette, varnished at street corners in the dipping light of eye contact. The many dress heels to pavement, the minutes and halves of a percussion compass would offer a bliss-erratic as bright as the tours of flickers, but for the directional mechanism of depletions in reverse. Those drab-dressed, vents whipping or other exodus, the day flattening. Three months later plus an hour, the weather had returned to seasonal: granular tableau above the river’s widening, husk yellow. She repaired, at the river, to the gradations of a hill, clean grass and dusty crown overlooking an eddy revolving with one styrofoam cup. Trees across the water in woolens. The sky lofted towards the coordinates of digital transmission. To receive alloys, the subfrigid metals of static, the needle electric in the ear, despair, of the listener. An air traffic pattern was changing, a rope of departures growling at the dimming detonation of the west. “I would shrink from attackers,” she may have thought. The young woman would turn away from the laugh of a bottle-thrower breaking, perhaps, on a vacant basketball court. An open palm, she concluded, is not always grasping for a handout, but a device that measures risk. The skeptic. The skeptic.
resurrection week editorial schedule:
Sonnet (for Clarice Lispector)