I, Reprised

January 01, 2020

My own words marred by perilous thoughts of a more sensible journey, purple sun, you’re color blind. The words of a stranger tear apart two more. I bear witness to my own departure; the only one left sitting in the pew – service ending abruptly, four years and four months ago if the date matters more to you now than it did then.

I, brittle, my words a reflection, cannot fill a page. When I do the verses flicker in and out of sight, thinner than the paper I press the ink into, bleeding into my skin more than it should.

I, tired, my thoughts a reflection, cannot starve these hands any further for fear of lack of grip. When I tie my shoes it takes longer than my excuses can bear, shaky fingers threading silk into an apology.

Lately I’ve been spending my days learning to unlearn the thoughts I accepted as a gift, wrapped tightly in your arms, if I run my feet follow ten steps behind, I love you like a run-on sentence. 

- Cassandra Dana

in the distance

June 07, 2017

Preamble: This reverie manifested from an experience of going to the countryside after months of living in the city. It is an attempt to express the perceptual encounter with the surrounding rural landscape and the horizon line.

In the distance

the snow lifting in pieces cutting your view into arrangements

in the rear view

the faint country house slides off

 

Behind the fence and down the faded tire tracked residue of a laneway

you notice the long-passed obstacle of something undone

 

The snowcapped trees

perpendicular, horizontal, curvature

 

In that faint house

out in the middle of somewhere

the centerpiece with smoke rising melts the top of a snow stacked roof

while warm bodies hide in the womb

 

Underneath the bent pine

in the middle of somewhere

almost nowhere

 

And every passed snow trekked trail, rusted down car, dilapidated barn

every animal track and barred up window and door

an imprint

 

She won’t give it up though

her mystery

not today, not any night

her “children” watch you trying to watch them

you are just too fixed on this being somewhere and not just anywhere

 

The taillights winding down, fading with your imagination

you wander down the snow road wondering

who else would wake to this?

 

In the distance

you fade out with it.

Photo by @inthedistance

parc butte chaumont

June 06, 2017

I asked if I could take one more ride on his moto,

But he is wiser than me,

He said it’d make things harder,

And politely said “non”.

 

I arrived in Paris a week ago,

A year since my last stay,

I tried to hide my presence,

It proved too difficult,

Especially at Parc Butte Chaumont.

 

I saw the bench and paths we shared,

Then I laid down to enjoy the sun,

I gently cried despite weather,

This time and place last year,

It was our first afternoon together.

 

My tears signalled that I must disclose,

I kept looking for Geoffrey in the flows,

And at night – in the Parisian clubs,

I searched for his eyes on my tiptoes.

 

I hoped to accidentally see him on the road,

Like the day I saw him near Arpège,

I worried of rejection if I called,

But I grew impatient on May 28th,

At 10:00pm I left a message at the tone.

 

 

He responded promptly,

He was in Normandy,

And would arrive in Paris late at night,

At 3:00am I’d be at rue de Panama,

By 6:00am he’d be holding me tight.

 

We shared our news and laughed lightly,

He’s been working the gardens,

But like a seesaw,

Simple news turned into emotion,

And longing forced laughs to withdraw.

 

The mood becomes sombre,

Our tea turned into something stronger,

We sipped gin and our eyes began to wander,

I asked him not to disappear,

Time could not stop my heart from growing fonder.

 

The windows in Geoffrey’s flat began to brighten,

He asked to hold me before I go,

My heart raced like engine of his moto,

I knew it’s best not to kiss him,

But I felt weak like a shadow.

 

I tried once and he said it’d make things harder,

Still I felt his hands on my legs and face,

Within minutes it was over,

I shed my final tears on his shoulder,

It was time for me to go.

- Natasha Bazilev

Photo by Nick Norstrom

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