Visible Chandeliers
By Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
I did not miss him, but I missed that the combustion
of summer’s heat, the sudden plume of sticky fever
did not distress me, that the airless drizzle of underground
I did not miss him, but I missed that the combustion
of summer’s heat, the sudden plume of sticky fever
did not distress me, that the airless drizzle of underground
commuting never touched my skin, the sweat taping
blouse to my collarbone was irrelevant; I did not miss him,
but I missed twilight traipsing through neighborhood streets,
not wondering if happier lives endured below the smooth
glow of visible chandeliers; the crisscross of branches
on opposite sides of the street canopying the dead-end
beautifully, the concrete of backyard porches so cool
after garden watering, the subtle swale of the bed’s center,
no longer a niche for muffled sniveling, the sudden uncovering
of fruit’s creaminess, so supplements were never needed
to fill me, the intensity of music like a holy experience;
I missed the sun’s breath drying my hair,
as if euphoria loomed in that transition, the midday dangle
in urban avenues, where I imagined ee’s greenly spirits
in gray pavements; I missed the diagonal movement of rain
gently reaching me through window screens, how lively
every inanimate object appeared to be, as if photographs were
human flesh; I did not miss him, but I missed the exhaustion
from atom collision fueling me, how the dusk brewing behind
bleachers did not offend me, that beneath arcs were carvings,
not eclipses; I missed the inflation of mediocrity, the opportunity
for companions to make a profit on my exuberance, that Emily’s
Hope was perched candidly on each shoulder; the bliss
of daydreams distracting mind screams, the refusal to fall asleep,
decades of playing dead fusing into a coma to make room
for consciousness; I missed the delight in sweeping, the pleasure
of my polish, the repetition of indulgent memory; I did not miss him,
but I missed stumbling upon the contour of decaying masks,
the breadth of hindering cobwebs in corners, the stubborn glue
of heavy shadows, and not thinking they were anything
other than Halloween leftovers
blouse to my collarbone was irrelevant; I did not miss him,
but I missed twilight traipsing through neighborhood streets,
not wondering if happier lives endured below the smooth
glow of visible chandeliers; the crisscross of branches
on opposite sides of the street canopying the dead-end
beautifully, the concrete of backyard porches so cool
after garden watering, the subtle swale of the bed’s center,
no longer a niche for muffled sniveling, the sudden uncovering
of fruit’s creaminess, so supplements were never needed
to fill me, the intensity of music like a holy experience;
I missed the sun’s breath drying my hair,
as if euphoria loomed in that transition, the midday dangle
in urban avenues, where I imagined ee’s greenly spirits
in gray pavements; I missed the diagonal movement of rain
gently reaching me through window screens, how lively
every inanimate object appeared to be, as if photographs were
human flesh; I did not miss him, but I missed the exhaustion
from atom collision fueling me, how the dusk brewing behind
bleachers did not offend me, that beneath arcs were carvings,
not eclipses; I missed the inflation of mediocrity, the opportunity
for companions to make a profit on my exuberance, that Emily’s
Hope was perched candidly on each shoulder; the bliss
of daydreams distracting mind screams, the refusal to fall asleep,
decades of playing dead fusing into a coma to make room
for consciousness; I missed the delight in sweeping, the pleasure
of my polish, the repetition of indulgent memory; I did not miss him,
but I missed stumbling upon the contour of decaying masks,
the breadth of hindering cobwebs in corners, the stubborn glue
of heavy shadows, and not thinking they were anything
other than Halloween leftovers
#Unreal #Poem #VisibleChandeliers #Halloween #Memory #Indulgent
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