August: The Landscape Without You

In the cruel light of a dead afternoon

he rises from the bed
plunging through liquid walls
into the world’s ever-greenness.

Across the lost fields a hot wind drizzles
ash. Laser-blue petals lift their tongues
to a cryptic sky. The air blinks
and turns to rust, settling along pathways
that edge ever deeper into the shadow
of sanctuary.

Yellow flashes across the crowns of bursting nettles.
The choked meadows struggle to breathe,
reach higher and higher
above the puffs of exploded milkweed.

The path cracks open – dry heaving.
It throws up fragments of splintered mirror …
of liquefied green … splashing
where feet should trod
but he floats silently above the ground,
grasps at thorns that draw no blood;
razors that leave no cuts.

A bee struggles to levitate on the long sigh
of a spirit breeze, wafting aloft
on the memory of pollen.
Emaciated mushrooms mark trespassing boundaries,
a line of white crosses in a haunted field
where burial becomes impossible.
Trees genuflect, as if in worship,
and lack the will to rise again.

He pulls back the curtain & crosses a fatal distance.
There’s a rubber suit draped over stone steps
that descend into an insipid stream. A frantic umbrella
twirls on ravaged ribs, falls clattering to one side
all out of spin. A tricycle vanishes into the past
and pulls behind it the last escape route.

Hands held v-shaped high above his head,
he plunges, breaks the surface of the reflection
for a second …
for a split-second …
before it re-assembles in the murky water
and allows him
to swallow

himself.

August: The Landscape Without You – by Michael Mirolla

Micheal Mirolla is an award winning novelist, short story writer, poet and playwright.  Along with partner Connie Guzzo McParland, Michael runs Guernica Editions, a Canadian literary publishing house.
– Short bio and works on Signature Editions

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