Jenny Drai

January 31, 2009


Sophie’s writing about Siggo eating a plum.  He’s still in that fifth century so maybe just some apples from an arbor but hear her out.

The plum is sweetly fragrant.  Flavors swell and burst until he lives against his tongue.  Now she can get his sentence out.  I ought to tell you where you’re from he tells the pit he throws into the wind.

Where you’re going.

Siggo thinks in the orchard.

The gnarled trees are tapestry against the early morning sky.  Sophie spends her ink in freshest light.  She loops and scrawls.  When Sophie fell in love, the tulips strangled in hot dust.  She had looked out her windows at the drought.  Sophie couldn’t see the speckled waxy petals.

Siggo’s mouth is screaming with the plum.

Siggo gaits his purpose back to what’s his house.  Sophie thinks he gets his shoe caught in dirty mire.  The fifth century must be full of such substances.  And pigs squalling in the wet.

Siggo barely notices.  Once Sophie camped with a canoe and floated in a vast.  She thought he paddled with her.

trees seems new he says well yes to you she

cups her hands in clearest water

A growth springs up from under canopy of light shining from old stars.  Welcome to the New World, Siggo.  Our streets are paved and the swine kept away from the gardens.

Siggo lies back against the stern and fights the constellations into form.  He can taste the clean in the water.  Sophie laughs in her café, crunching on some ice.  But Siggo won’t stick in that lake with no way back.

He’ll drift against some rocks and the lichen will engulf him.

Freda dies against his eyelids often when he closes and sometimes when he’s open.  He’s light green vision straight ahead and blending to an undergrowth.

Among the fir trees and the ferns.

Sophie rallies her author.  F. just stays vanished.

He doesn’t make a door by appearing suddenly and walking through some lintels. Sophie pushes her my a bit away.  She says

your body, Siggo.  Inhabits itself most of the time you inhabit your body.  You know.  Your legs and arms.

The massive and catastrophic space behind your face.  My welcome to you is a Siggo in my

body glancing all around your sunlight to find the plum stone.  You return from the space of your house and the mire.  You threw the stone far into a breeze the shade of mist drifting upward from a field of grasses.

You watched directory and plummet.

The stone is a fertile womb.  If you find the thing you lose, you lose one less thing.  Siggo runs into direction.

Hair slapping against nape.

When Siggo stood watch against the bedside, her name was Freda and was wife.  She wanted water and drank a thirst.  She withered quickly.

Siggo cut his knuckles on the wall.

F. is elsewhere.  He is where F. uses the grocery store or attends the bank.

After he cut his knuckles on the wall, Siggo bit through the inside of his cheek.  Blood pooled warmly into abscess and you’re

waiting for me Sophie thinks.  The canoe glides some grace against the silent water.  We dip our paddles into reservoir.  A beaver swims gently by.

Aurora borealis.  The night is kind to strangers from afar who seek a less.

In the New World, the streets are paved and garbage hauled away in weekly cycles.

look he whispers pinks and oranges how

white the colors of the sky at night my

wife still in my mouth

Yes I had better Sophie thinks.  Siggo chases the plum stone through tall grasses.  He uses up his energies.

The pit from that plum is the invention of solace.  Sophie lets Siggo find the stone but not the solace.  The pit from that plum is the definition of fleeting.

The last motion of those two blue eyes within the living.  Siggo swallowed the blood from his cut cheek.

Sophie uses her pen to flourish her point.  You have grown used to me.  I put my mouth on your shoulder just biting some declaratives.

Does light die you want to know.  My pen full of light from the horizon and descriptions of what happens to you.

Does the light from your orchard drift nearby among the shops and stoplights of my city.  Or in our reflections against the dark and placid water.

I could help you clean the pulp from the stone of the plum, Sophie proffers.  Grief has a specific place within the sinew and the joints.  I thought

my would fall forwards from it no just the burning sun against the landscape in the mornings when I woke, Siggo thinks.  I had to move my limbs.

Okay I also brewed some coffee drinking darkly a liquid suited for awakening.  A sparrow chirped.

F. is elsewhere.  F. parks his car in the car park.  F. uses the ATM machine and presses ‘yes’ to continue despite the surcharge.

Everything I have of lament is barbaric.

F. trapped in the gridlock on the freeway.

If a man, a young man, if a man could love

his wife, if a young man could cherish a young woman beholden to him, if he could laugh her startling one morning among the chickens and the

grain scattered,

if he could mourn her as an illness maimed her,

if a young

man’s hair could fall across his face as he leaned over the wife to offer water from some lake the future held, if she

swallowed the water, if her eyes

slid across the young man’s face however dreary or amok, his hair just

pushed back—

Sophie considers the origin of Siggo.

F. is somewhere.  At the dog park maybe.

Sophie suspends her pen to break obsession.  She is a creature in the vicinity of her parts.  Sophie looks up to glance at loss.

Siggo standing in the orchard.  Alive in all his senses to taste the plum.  Siggo not dulled by grief but woken.

Sophie measures her time across the units of her watch.  She must drag some soiled clothing to the laundry to effect a cleaning.  Sophie will flip the pages of a book while the suds absorb her daily garments.

Siggo beside her on the chipped orange bench.

and the water is sweet here I’ll hand

you the cup you must drink

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