Two hundred and seven words. 16

by kvennarad

What was it that made her reach for poetry (poetry being the extra suit of a tarocky pack, but only in the sense of a suit pulled on over a shirt and underwear and socks, not in the sense of one dealt or handled, one with a sleeve up which to hide aces in a bald attempt to carve victory over muteness, a costume once sharply tailored, now worn from being worn) if not the vanity that thunder could be parlayed, if not the sense that the long road had a slight bend, the merest elbow, that marked the cut-off point between two worlds, where – no matter which way she was facing, no matter in which direction she was travelling – the wind changed direction and resisted her, bearing with it a slight taint and taste, a step from safety to anxiety, a moment when she realised her fingers were cold and her armpits hot, a tipping between feeling and not feeling that there were people in the houses, other walkers by the roadside, passers and passengers in cars, that not feeling being the loneliness of the last apple on a bare tree or a dumb, silenced stone, such a weariness, unwilling to move, afraid to stay still


jupiter©Marie Marshall