by Avrina Prabala–Joslin
Sometimes, all I want from a sheet of paper is for it to sit on the table. It can sit empty for hours without end but at least, there, sitting. Empty. Open like a mouth to an ocean.
Careful not to fall in. Or do. Falling is the best part. Not knowing anything. When comes the floor? Swimming somewhere, everything you know suspended like planets and their moons. Everything you know in this mouth, a colosseum of memory. The paper waiting to fire neurons.
Take a moon from your archive, mix it with a language you think you don’t speak. Introduce someone to you whose life you’ll become, temporarily.
In the open mouth you take lilies, string them together with words you’ve never spoken, meanings unknown. You tie them to the ends of your hair and dance in the cosmos, spilling a scent so specific to your childhood, when under a lily bough you played hopscotch and the tiny flowers, they kept falling on you like rain. Hopping. Skipping pebbles, ripple on ripple on ripple.
A sheet of paper sits on the table
A promise of a playground
A story, a portal
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