The Furious Spinner

Nights unroll, unfurl, fade to black. I am up and about, haunting my own home, wandering outside, a dispirited flower child. All the flowers have lost their color in the dark. They are gray. Only that word does not accurately describe them. It's as if they've all washed their faces and put away the color for a time when florid is required. At night we are all shades...of the same color. I stand next to Kuan Yin; both of us are like pale grave markers, only we giggle and whisper, "I'm more stoned than you are" and fan ourselves demurely with seashells dropped from the big dipper.

Who touches you and holds you quite like I do? Who makes you feel like I make you feel?

How can anyone breathe the air—sipping the broth of the universe—and not drop down onto their knees in awestruck ecstatic love?

Stars whiz by. Listen. Ahhhhh, that one says. Ain't we having fun? Ssssssss. It just sizzles, another hisses.

Soon, the pain, twitches, nausea, or whatever roused me from bed this night, exhausts itself and I crawl back into bed. My beloved curls around me, and I wrap my bare legs around his bare legs. He is cool and warm all at the same time. I clasp his hand to my heart, and I close my eyes. I am a falling star who has found my universe.
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All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.