words after

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I scraped the last of Keddy’s rot from my driveway and dumped the sour skins. Late autumn beams gave warmth for sandals and sun hats. In three years I had never bitten a fallen apple. That would be stealing. I stripped wet gloves to prepare for my task.

Seventeen would not make it serial. Each act was unique and, though compelled, I knew that I had changed. An antique bag concealed my tools and I scavenged for new additions. Dirty paper outlined details dripped in blue, with no expected confirmation of closure. The leather mouth consumed twine and scissors, a wonder I hadn’t needed them before.

I walked in humility without my early resentment at obligations. This body shed cells of regret a thousand times these three years. I was new. There was no moral of conversion. Tonight the work would be complete, but I would not.

A sweet bonfire wind tickled porch chimes, baritone verse in tousled wood. The empty hook winked me a shiver and I dreamt the final token. Maybe Zoe wouldn’t pounce the fence to bat at chimes if I carved the yew in delicate treble. I pocketed the dull blade and slipped into my rubber boots.

§359 · July 17, 2009 · Uncategorized · Tags: , , · [Print]

20 Comments to “Grace Note”

  1. KjM says:

    This piece demanded a number of readings, and rewarded each as layer after layer uncovered themselves.

    I shivered at what “Seventeen would not make it serial” might portend and loved “This body shed cells… the work would be complete, but I would not.”

    This will remain with me for a long while. Many thanks.

  2. KjM says:

    Oh I doubt it :)

  3. danpowell says:

    Like Kevin, I think this will bear rereading. The prose is so terse yet evocative that it feels like a prose poem. Love the musical imagery, and ‘This body shed cells of regret a thousand times these three years’ is an awesome line. Real on-the-body imagery that converys the emotional in the physical. I’ll be coming back to this piece.

  4. Laura Eno says:

    Like the others, I found the many layers intriguing. Very poetic. Loved the musical quality.

  5. Ryan says:

    Loved it too. For some reason, it reminded me of Dexter the TV show. But, you know, a lot better.

  6. ‘A sweet bonfire wind’ – gorgeous! definitely a prose poem in disguise, it fits the criteria – spare evocative language, lots of layers, etc.
    fab :-)

    • Jen says:

      Thanks, Pippa! I don’t know much about poetry, or prose poetry, but you’re not the first one to mention that to me. I should look it up. Thanks for reading!

  7. Wonderfully written and a pleasure to read again and again.

  8. There is a lyrical quality to your writing that I enjoy quite a bit. Nice.
    ~jon

    • Jen says:

      Thank you, Jon. I wonder how much my style will continue to change. I don’t seem to have settled into anything quite yet. It does seem I’m using fewer words and exploring shorter snippets of life.

  9. 2mara says:

    This is a really lovely piece, and like the rest I know I am going to have to read it many more times.

    I am so jealous of how you can say so much in such a little piece.

    Many apologies for being late.
    ~2

    • Jen says:

      No apologies! I’m grateful you’re late. Your tweets are reminding me to get everyone added to my blogroll. And I’m jealous of your powerful imagination!

  10. Jeff Posey says:

    Oh, yes, this is poetry. Lay it out anyway you like, but this is poetry. Pick any phrase at random:

    A sweet bonfire wind

    Sounds like the title of a good book.

    Lovely piece, Jen.

  11. Carrie says:

    Murder, he wrote. You tease me with fonder secrets. I can’t see past the floral aching lines and tangerine-tattered leaves.

    Love your work as usual.

    Carrie

  12. I deliberately wrote this to see if readers would find it good or evil, their own truth. http://www.jentropy.com/archives/359 #litchat