September 26, 2010

C L Bledsoe

Air is Seen Through Motion, Not Form

You wake early to make her breakfast. This is what you are supposed to do, and so you do it. You hesitate before getting up and lie beside her, waiting for the alarm. She sets it for radio. This doesn't wake her up. You know this. This is control.

You lay without moving for two minutes, counting it out on the ceiling. Planes take off from the airport a couple blocks over. Alarms start through the walls in other apartments. You lay there and listen, thinking; this is the horizon. This is what you've been looking towards.

She wakes in a false start and turns over. You rise, go to the kitchen. The morning belongs to waffles, not anger. Fruit, not syrup. You hear water running in the bathroom. Radios come alive below you. Cars start. Sirens. There is a paper in the hallway. You heard it thud into the door at 3:17. She will be late. She is always late. You will be on time. You are crossing the mountain, that ridge that is forever receding into the distance. You are on the tip, leaning over. And all you see ahead is fall. Waiting for you.


C L Bledsoe is the author of two poetry collections, a fiction collection, and two chapbooks. More about him at his blog:

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