She sits nightly on her stoop
with her book and the orange juice colored vodka mix…always more vodka than juice…
Amidst the silence of the night and below the mysteries of a trillion stars that inspire the guttural cry of a thousand questions…heavy and swollen…
Jade, her jet black cat, saunters through the cracked front door. He crouches between the crook made between her reading hand poised just below her downcast gaze.
Jade knows….
and rubs the back of his head against her right side. I imagine both to comfort himself, and to speak the language that only grief can hear.
The book is rich with cliches. It speaks of other worlds, away from this one. Polite answers lay between the pages, with raw truth, laid next to lies, the clean next to the mess of inconsistency and randomness. Random acts of kindness, and memories of a dark yesterday. Of love given and unreturned. Of sour, scorching regret. Of last words never spoken. Of phone calls never made…
She slams the book down, looking away, and nervously flicks a lighter to the newton cigarette now dangling between her lips. Sickened at the thoughts invading her mind. Reminding her away from this place…of escape.
Her stoop, with her book.
The ice gently melting away into transparent floating icebergs. Rocking and rattling within the tall crystal walls of her souvenir beer mug, with the words:
A Thousand Miles In The Sky
Written by Veron Graham
Topics: Prose Poetry