by: Albert Garcia
It’s ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife’s eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect--
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?
_________________________
It is 11:20 in the morning. I haven't really accomplished anything, and I'm not really upset about it.
I woke up early this morning and listened to the sounds of my family in our hotel room. There was a TV playing downstairs. My sister is an early riser. My son farted in his bed. Every once in a while, I heard my wife shift, her sheets rasp. No sounds from my daughter's room.
That is what August summer mornings should be. Quiet. Filled with a green contentment.
Saint Marty could stay on vacation for the next twelve months of his life.
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