Eventide

It is eventide over my head, like old bourbon in a glass, straight up. We have come shyly as mosquitoes near still water, our flashlights adrift over dark girls in their secret boxes; their nights belong to the wind.

The lake loves me in secret. In my canoe I am an enigma from the shore. I am carved from a young girl sleeping beneath the inward sky, my left hand is black and white, my right hand is shadowless. My eyes are wide open but closed to the lurkers behind dawn’s door.

The south wind blows scampering ghosts across a lonely spider’s web. Delicate creatures fall wild on my forehead and ask to see my brain; there is no tomb to rise dead from… no apples to bleed from… no dragon to claim as my own.

My old man limps away. He stumbles to a blind horse amidst last year’s horses. He’s been drinking again. Drunk horses leave green droppings in blue patches of crab grass, but my old man pays no mind. He goes home as quiet as the evening… as quiet as the dark girls at rest in the black earth of silence.

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