by Zinta Aistars
The rattle of bones, the mad march of skeletons,
skulls rounded and milky white, eyes vacant
with the loss of memory—life is that and nothing else—now only
these locked and bolted doors, the hard rain pelting
the windows, the membrane of yesterday
a shimmering gauze across the summon
of future gone past
too soon, too sleek and slippery in the hand
to hold, or even caress, even grasp its solid curve,
its chill, its hollow egg fragile with potential,
for one moment, one full and ripened moment,
begging only to arrest, hold, linger, fathom,
taste on the tongue
tip, and honeyed taste on the lips,
a mango sweet, dipped and rolled and set
to flame. Only one. No matter.
Time flings itself in reckless abandon.
Thrashes against the closet doors, shatters the windowpane,
has its nervous breakdown and curls into a fetal coil
in the darkest corner of the room, whining and whimpering.
This room. One life.
And time a colder thing even than apathy—
this dizzying speed ushering in a visage
of empty desert, a golden and infinite nothing.