People have always wanted
particular shapes. No one
sees the difficulty in this.
In the morning, sometimes it
is like an orchard with the
strange grey belly of the sky
heavy like fruit on the boughs
and I must be quick,
sometimes I am pruning magnificent
gowns. And to hem their sweeps of wet
toile or to tear a button from
a collar, certain
orders must be suspended. I like
to think that when abandoned,
these girls would form a pure
stand of pines, kneeling on a perfect
axis and with crowns untied, their
armfuls of needles as the very
last of all leaves, unashamedly
sharpened and unlovable. In the
topmost branches I came to a nest —
once it had been moved, the bird
would not recognize her young.
Return to the Summer Fiction index. Send comments to [email protected]
