Monday, August 7, 2017

Confessions From Here by Airea D. Matthews


Confessions From Here
 
I left our window open most nights.  A man with winged ankles would visit while you slept. He’d ask about my doings, how the syrah finished, noticed the dimple on my chin when I smiled, touched the thick swell of my waist, lightly. When the wind whistled like the Northeast Corridor, he’d tongue the small of my back before leaving. After 2 most mornings. I wailed a tempest that last time. Flooded our basement. Asked him to stay or carry me over. He tucked me in the crook of his elbow and flew here. Where I am now.

When you woke the next morning, I imagine you thought it rained the night before. You called the plumber, didn’t you?  To fix the basement, swollen from squalls?  Did you dig your fingernail under the blistering cinder? Check for mold? Did the walls crumble?  When you asked the children where their mother was? Did they shrug? Bounce my name between rooms? Weep into their porridge? If they beat their bare feet against the cracked tiles in the hallway, did you notice those tiny feathers sprouting from their Achilles?  Did you wrinkle your brow? Grab your shears?
  
 

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