the carpet from your childhood closet is ridden with memories of you. there are fibers from a baseball glove, crumbs from candy that fell from your pockets, flakes of mud you once tracked inside after running to escape a sudden thunderstorm; all awash with traces of your dna from the oils of your skin: liquid memory, concrete evidence of you.
a piece of bark, a shred of leaf, fell from the still-strong tree you used to climb. the wooden house is rotting. the tiles crack above the floor that sags into the hollow ground, the ground beneath your closet breaks as the whole place caves, or is bulldozed, or burned. it's thermodynamics, really. all this texas clay, you say, is unwavering in its strength. but every rock of that hard dirt contains a piece of you: a fiber of your carpet, caked with mud and bits of baseball, or a piece of decomposed bark from the tree you used to climb. a ceramic shard, even, from the tile you'd skid across, makes this dirt something more than dirt, makes it unsagging texas clay. -bronnie _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
