By Hannah Phinney
He is standing frontwise to the velux in a room whose walls are vibratingly flower-explosioned and whose ceiling slants are such that they can only be capping the space at the very top of that ancient house; standing is he, and gazing at the milky rotund lobe of moon with wrappers of melancholy over his eyeballs, since he hears and cannot unhear her screams rising from below, piths of sound impaling his eartubes. These cries form the shape of his name and loop endlessly, it is a deadly looping, a blackhole of wounded feeling into which he falls again and again each time the name is sirened through the floorboards via tortured twists of her voice. A salty brine is filling up his eyeball wrappers especially at the corners thus obscuring foliage the gamut of spinach to chartreuse the gamut of spindlythin to saucerfat that lies flat all about the walls and plays cover-the-dragonlilly etc.
Still he’s staring at the moonlobe, a placard in the blackened sky, and it has inched upwards and a thinnish slice has been shaved off so that it flouts its waxing gibbous-ness. Her chained wails stream continually upwards to him likewise. He shutters with each repeat of his name. But filigreed ferns dip off of paper into the attic’s dimensionality; waxy, almondshaped, boatbig leaves bow into the room; jewelcolored petals dance into the space. The jungle is creeping in around him. Monkeys exit their lifeless drawings to hop and skimper and birdcalls ring, impinging on the issuance of his lover’s upfloating cries. He seems unnoticing until a bloodorange bird-of-paradise falls poppingly into position by his nose organ, and at this he’s closing his salt-marinated lids and inhaling with vigor…there is the twitch of an internal zipper unzipping as he accidentally self-drenches in nostalgia for her bed hair at morningtime.
Velux-forward he has been for some while now, feet planted and limp arms dangling samely. The alabaster moon tickles the top of his sightbox, first quartered now crescent waxing, and he moves not, although his slowly-drying swampy peepers have followed the sphere’s ascent through that starless coalbucket called space. Infrequently are his former lady’s moans attaining him at present. They sidle ever-less violently into his eartubes, into his heartvalves. Spongy moss is spreading underfoot; vines curlicuing in loopy content; the neon lights of maneating blooms are everywhere. Gone is bed, desk, dresser. He is sinking etheralwise into the caws of mad avian species, or perhaps sinking pleasantly into the numbing hum of prismed insecta. He is watching as the bleached moon dyes its last bits inky and becomes new. Her laments have fallen faraway. They only sound like whispers across a many-miled plane.
Hannah Phinney is a bartender, a graduate student in linguistics at San Francisco State, and an aspiring writer of semi-surrealistic/sci-fi/postmodern fiction. Her poetry and prose can be found at: http://kingzoko.wordpress.com/