Thursday, April 28, 2011

Sit in a windowsill, bottle feeding, bodily feeding. She's looking up at me, but passing me, she's not fixed on me at all, despite the lock-eyed contact, at something behind my cheekbones, buried in bone and an indifference she's got in those brittle palms. Dappled by. Dappled by the sun through leaves, through the wired screen, through glass... her pupils dilating back and forth with a sun that can swing. Pulling my hair, then she pulls her earlobe. Eyelids like they're being painted with a silt. Fighting sleep with the plastic nipple in mouth, jerking out of the hypnosis of it, falling into it.
A totality I've never felt. This want. This want. This want to armor a portion of life. To make sure. To make sure.
The indifference and the lack of meaning, a strange satisfaction, knowing it'll be swept.

Even still, I got this feeling like this can be bottled, like she's gonna just live forever. Sweeping right past me.

1 comment:

Millineries said...

This act is concise and mathematical in it's nature, because of the immediacy and the essentialness of it, to eat, to feed.
But in it's appearance, something entirely different, something sentimental, a place where we can dwell forever and watch and watch and attempt to put in the safety deposit boxes of their hearts.