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Rain and the Insoluble Lozenge of Memory by Sihaya Harris
The rain trumpet Spring as she waits under her wilted parasol of verdancy, Rain, leaving Precambrian tidepools, lush with new smells condensing to dew on the undulating underbellies, hidden under mollusks shells, Trails behind them in the still mud-damp grass, trails budding green, bulging green, swollen tempesting, aching to burst open in jets of quetzal feather at the breast, blood-hewn flame. And the rain smoothes harshness of day, bright violence, rounding out a moon-shaped chunk of sky.
For ten years, almost, I lived a world ablur. Heavens to me were vast emptiness. My mother bought me a cheap, plastic telescope, and I searched for firmament, scrawling lines of When the Moon Was Gone, a fatal dystopia, Never knowing what I was looking for.
But as I look up tonight at overcast skies, I can wait, knowing I will again find the world, incarnate anew, painfully beautiful and vast oddity of space, fully equipped with stars all a' tremble. (and now aided by modern magic) I am met with quick surprise at being no longer so myopic.
Tabby cat Languor and two shades of Coy slip under the refuge of toadstool, And anticipate suns heralding their own harlequinade, a dance on palettes of borrowed sunset and moonshine into the womb of every honey delver's Dailsy, and dripping liquid somniloquies into my eyes.
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