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Instead of a boat or a hat, she made an umbrella out of yesterday’s news. And it kept her dry, for a time, the figures and photographs above her blotting. The prism light catches these splashes, the block black headlines running though, smudging, staining her face, her skin. She doesn’t watch the water rinse the ghost stories, folk tales – she can only shelter. From the shower she ducks past newsagents, stalls, stands, into a bookshop, closing the skeletal frame of her lifeless umbrella behind her. These books are built to last more than one use, like trees, branches spread over her like blankets. She wraps herself up like a present in the leaves, the stripes solid, unchanged, and they flow in the air of her movement like a sun dress. |
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CONVERSATION
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Metaphorest
recommended
In Print on August 07, 2011
sfdetroiter
recommended
In Print on November 14, 2010
In Print
In Print
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