"Alone, she watched,
from the oversized window
a full story and a half above.
They rolled one coffin,
with no ceremony, but
with a stout and manly push
out of the plane.
And then they rolled another
in the same callous way
into the plane.
The doors closed and she watched
the coffin take off and fly
towards god knows where
to be buried."
---
She leaned back from her wooden desk in the motel room. Took a sip from the crystal glass, then tipped it back and finished the glass. Her face scrunched up like someone had punched her. She put the glass down in the light being cast down by a table-lamp, shaded with translucent green. A crystalline, reverse shadow of light was cast onto the autobiographical not; a shining, beautiful light pattern given by the glass.
But she did not notice. She had stood, and was walking towards the window. She passed her bags, untouched on the bed, passed her television, lonely and unused, and opened the glass door of the motel and walked out onto the small porch. She pulled a cigarette out of her breast pocket, slapped it against her palm a few times. Withdrew a cigarette, lit it with a lighter she had tucked in her pocket. She leaned, arm over arm, onto the rail. Blue-grey smoke slipped from her mouth, like evanescent ribbons, into the night where they disappeared in the same way that fire does when it gets furthest from the source of heat.
She surveyed the city beneath her. Built on hills. Built Spanish, Americanized at an advanced age. It was now a favored city of retired Republicans everywhere. Behind her, unseen from her view, Hillcrest was alive with activity and vitality. But right in front of her, the airport sat, throwing planes into the air from her mouth, and receiving them into her chest like a mother. She sniffed.
She took another drag of her cigarette, and ashed it on the rail. She was crying.
from the oversized window
a full story and a half above.
They rolled one coffin,
with no ceremony, but
with a stout and manly push
out of the plane.
And then they rolled another
in the same callous way
into the plane.
The doors closed and she watched
the coffin take off and fly
towards god knows where
to be buried."
---
She leaned back from her wooden desk in the motel room. Took a sip from the crystal glass, then tipped it back and finished the glass. Her face scrunched up like someone had punched her. She put the glass down in the light being cast down by a table-lamp, shaded with translucent green. A crystalline, reverse shadow of light was cast onto the autobiographical not; a shining, beautiful light pattern given by the glass.
But she did not notice. She had stood, and was walking towards the window. She passed her bags, untouched on the bed, passed her television, lonely and unused, and opened the glass door of the motel and walked out onto the small porch. She pulled a cigarette out of her breast pocket, slapped it against her palm a few times. Withdrew a cigarette, lit it with a lighter she had tucked in her pocket. She leaned, arm over arm, onto the rail. Blue-grey smoke slipped from her mouth, like evanescent ribbons, into the night where they disappeared in the same way that fire does when it gets furthest from the source of heat.
She surveyed the city beneath her. Built on hills. Built Spanish, Americanized at an advanced age. It was now a favored city of retired Republicans everywhere. Behind her, unseen from her view, Hillcrest was alive with activity and vitality. But right in front of her, the airport sat, throwing planes into the air from her mouth, and receiving them into her chest like a mother. She sniffed.
She took another drag of her cigarette, and ashed it on the rail. She was crying.
