Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

August 07, 2008

character/place: manitoba

Alice loves to rise early and plunge her sleep-hot feet into the cold pool of the floor, kick for her slippers and warm the stiff leather with her toes. Their own surfaces like the crackle-dry membranes of a forgotten, sliced orange. Alice goes and puts the kitchen radio on one hair above a whisper, then sits in her chair by the Eastward window, looks out towards the larches, and carefully works Bag Balm into her knuckles, palms, wrists, and still-clicking left elbow, even after all these years, as though someone has tipped a tiny spoon of sugar into the crook.

Afterwards, Alice stands immediately, tightens her robe, clears her throat, then lights a smoke and thinks of Abner. Her smoke lasts seven minutes and enlivens her tongue like a kick wakes a dog, at which point she abruptly stubs the butt with one hand, opens the window with another, and forgets everything but the birds.

She puts a saucer of sunflower seeds out for the stellar jays each morning, even though they're noisy. She sets it onto the greyed-cedar porch rail; a quarter turn in the glassy frost makes it stick. She usually catches a seed in her fingers as she rests the dish, to crack between her teeth as she watches her breath rise white with the sun.

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Posted by: hollisteruk at September 4, 2012 07:47 PM
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