sterling

"sterling, will you open that window a little more? it's so hot in here." sterling turned to his sister sitting on the other side of the room. she was engrossed in a magazine, cutting bits out and piling them on the table. he was immersed in a book, sitting by the window, wanting quiet, yet still, he opened the window a little more.

the wind blew, his hair against his eyes and the papers making a sound of flying. she grunted, “actually, can you close that?” 

there were the few things of string that tie together, the torn table, or rather what spins and always sees before you the ones that are born of blood or of a breast, the beating underneath it, and it’s wind of words.

sterling and sister, an unremarked friendship bidden by the hidden once love of two, the thrown together tide of romance now, where only windows open still blowing but never fully seen through screen, or the ones shattered that are easier pieces to pick, or toss. 

in the heat of a summer, sweating bodies found only under the cool places, digging with hands into the earth, a deep attempt, clawing and wild, the beasts that would go underground, finding water, to drink not of what pours from the mountain’s side.

sterling & silver, his platter of tarnished metal, uncared for but holding the set of beauty, a tea from a time ago, green lawns and manicures, but now the heat of a city summer, of writing and crafting the twine of skin that awakens early to alarms to “grind” grit of paychecks that in it, the felt sense of alive or what other must be feeling so too to feel it for self, sweating, the detox of a city summer. 

”sterling, order us some food. i can’t talk on the phone right now, sweat smearing screens.” sterling took the phone from her as it fell, dialing something without knowing what. a number to a name, sometimes overcome by something without control and the after thought of choice that said face implanted hand, the sigh of why. 

yet still, unremarked, the awareness of the bees that still, may sting, that still, a bee’s buzz, that still, a human, and may hear, that still, the choices of paths and bridges that pull together the large breasts of the earth and its caves deep dwelling, and all that pierces it, like an echo.  

 

 

copyright 2018 ⓒ / forrest gallagher