To wander away from this place, to leave behind the flesh and all it’s tightening hearts, to give up the sudden wash of creek water from mountain eyes that have seen cars with children go over the edge.
To stop waiting and move forward with a con-artist’s confidence. To use emotion and lies to gain what I want, I want, I want, I want, like a termagant on another tear.
To give up the anger, the returning to tired tropes of red rage at wrongs done. One wants to be done with the wear and tear on the soul and reveal the naked foot beneath, ready to put toes to cool grass.
To find the smell coming down from the mountain, like a drift of woodsmoke lit in a cabin to keep an old woman warm.
To stalk with surety the blaze of rage that gives up the doubt and burns free the clear shining glass beneath, the crystal bottle with the wisps around the top, a cold liquor of rainwater caught coming down the mountainside.
To hold the thought and run it like a motorcycle ride through a ditch, up and down the sides and then up over the edge and across the field, following the memories of snowmobile tracks long melted away.
To hide away in the cage like a kitten grown into a cat and returning to the familiar smells of mother’s blanket and father’s musk.
To tell a story with a tongue wagging like a weapon and a joke all in the same breath.
To smash the crystal ball against the wooden walls of a gypsy caravan and deny whatever lies the woman with the tattoo’d bird on her throat is spewing, and light a cigarette on the way out.
To be the claw next to the other claws as they extend from the toes of a gray tabby, catching on a bit of fabric and feel the pull of it against the flesh before the threads snap.
To feel the gentleness of a comfortable chin, resting with a purr against the wrist as the letters get tapped out across the page.
To feel the grr of the belly as breakfast, an explosion of spinach and egg and mushroom and cheese and tomato and bread, is considered.
To feel the wash in the mouth as the dark and sharp smell of coffee in the kitchen comes wandering through the place when there isn’t even a hint of dawn yet through the window.
The pull of fingernails across the itch in the forehead is a sudden focus like raindrops streaking across a windowsill.