I am a writer from the rain-drenched woods of western Washington. My work has appeared recently in Cultured Vultures, Rising Phoenix Review, Silver Birch Press, Quail Bell, and other publications. I enjoy cooking vegan desserts, traveling to exotic off-season locales like Tucson in August and Cleveland in February, and all water-related activities.
Speak to me in a language
of storms that continue
for many days.
Speak to me like a field of corn
in July, with sweating teenagers
pulling tassels in the sun
amidst the din of transistors.
Speak to me as if speaking would
make the sun rise, the traffic stop,
the clocks speed up,
the windows fly open,
and the clouds cover everything.
Speak to me in the cold
when all you can think about
is going inside—
we will duck into hotel lobbies
that stretch for blocks
and stroll through the halls,
admiring the chandeliers.
Speak to me in the doorways
which lead to tiny openings
and finally to smaller apertures-
follow the pinhole trail as far as it goes,
turn and head back
in the opposite direction, laughing.
I will wait on the other side.
Took a wrong turn
on Sheridan Road
after yoga class
and wound up
at the Baha'i temple,
then sat idling
in my car while
I gazed at the spiraling roof.
It always reminded me
of a gigantic
orange juice squeezer
for an orange.
There are no accidents,
or so the new agers
always say, but I think
there must be at least a couple,
and this is probably
one of them.
Your father always said
you had to let go of the kite
when the afternoon of kite flying was over.
You had to watch it ascend erratically
above the trees, then drift over
towards Lake Michigan
with a new sense of purpose,
hit a wind draft, and disappear.
It was probably just laziness
on your father's part, a refusal
to spend the time gently pulling
on the string, reeling the kite in
and then folding it up
to be used on another day.
You never questioned this, though,
and your parents mouthed platitudes
about nothing ever lasting,
and you can always purchase something new,
and that it was best to be like a kite.
It was too early for anybody
to worry about the environment,
if you were tired of something
you just threw it on the ground
or you let it fly over your head
and miraculously cease to exist.
People were dying in jungles
on the other side of the world,
they either fell or ascended, or
both. It was easier not to worry
or get too attached.
When the kite was gone
you always turned around
and went to get something to eat
at a nearby restaurant.
Your momentum needed fuel to continue,
but the kite still soared
unassisted towards unknown territory.
Perhaps being a kite
might be better after all,
not knowing for sure
whether you would hit a wall
or find someone else's hand,
but there always was a certain comfort
in sitting in an upholstered chair
and being able to order from a menu.
©2015 Leah Mueller