A handful of fingers in my hair wakes me. The clouds come apart and it snows. All this distance, but you drag your same old bones, your same old brain with you. She brushes the flakes off her fake-fur collar.
The apartment is full of the souvenirs of a lived life, each one of the nails holding memory in place. There are red flowers like big mouths. She fills a pot with warm water. Food made the day’s work possible, but is it heavy in the heart or the gut? She wants more to drink.
She made various bowls, none of them necessary for the world. What we have to eat, our water, our habitat, is the only place left to us. Her eyes are dry.
The best we can hope for, the very utmost dream, is to be naked with someone our own age or a little older and muck around with them in the dark. Snow and snow and snow. A new, white sea is born. It feels silent and heavy.
If I open the blanket and you are gone, I will forgive you.
Aura Martin, 2019
Awayland: Stories, by Ramona Ausubel