Fiction's about what it is to be a human being. – David Foster Wallace

The World is Coming of Age (or:) Tarzan and Jane

I was young and we climbed trees,
pretending the blades of grass
were a rainforest. For a moment
she hung
in
the air,
almost gracefully fluttering
like another leaf spent of energy,
flung outward from the tree.

We did not have cherry blossoms
where I grew up:
only the dried up carcasses
of leaves, brownish and
miscolored, the rain
ironically mixing them into slush
like the burly forearms of
a butterchurning marm;
a sluice of greenless mud.

It was mid-autumn.

Her fall looked fatal to me,
a descension from near-infinite
height, until the childish pretension
faded: the fall would not kill
– only hurt.

Her chin kissed the top of
a protruding root (it was a French
kiss, the root plunging its
tongue with sensual desire
into the red-brown orifice
where chin-meat used to be),
and she was unmaidened,
perforated in that instant.

Our mothers’ wails outdrowned
her own as they escorted
her to: the restroom.

The last glimpse of her
I had was of a
leaf
, birthed out through the undercarriage
of her jaw, the brown
carcass of a stillborn
summer.

3 responses

  1. Very nice post today thanks. I really enjoyed it. See you around!

    July 27, 2011 at 10:44 pm

  2. nice nice nice. I’m curious to know who your childhood friend is?

    September 19, 2011 at 9:57 am

    • It was one of my mom’s coworkers’ daughters. You don’t know her. I didn’t know her that well myself.

      October 9, 2011 at 9:33 am

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