Idyll

It was the light cast by the feeble stars that finally did me in – I threw up my hands, having already thrown up my errors in judgment, and made a wonderful attempt to shout something profound and luscious with meaning at all those weak-wristed lights, but all that I was able to belch was

“… the literal fuck?”

Luckily, I’ve been able to focus all of that rage inward, but at what cost? What cost? These days, my perception of things is an abandoned house in the country, fallen completely to disrepair, as you can see by the way the shutters have rotted from their hinges,

and whatever glass there is
is broken glass,

and the peeled strips of paint like overgrown fingernails.

The interior is just an abominable tableau of trash and damaged furniture. But there’s the underlying sense that yes, this place once made a rather comfortable living space for some family of four in another time, and your imagination pulses with all kinds of halcyon scenes;

brother and sister
frolicking
in the backyard,
playing games they’ve invented
only for themselves,

while mother
and father
watch from the porch,
mother resting her head
on father’s shoulder
as the warm twilight
slowly coaxes her to sleep,
her hand in father’s
much larger hand.

He turns his head,
buries his nose in her
floral scented hair,
and kisses her
on the crown.

These scenes, juxtaposed with the present state of affairs erupt in a single question: What the fuck exactly happened? And of course, you’re too horrified to speculate.

-r. miller

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