Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo.
Travellers
It’s comical and tragic
how she floats between walls, the silent watcher becoming the studied, the
scarlet magician defeated. These lines were painted long before her arrival,
their essence already etched into the red soil made solid. Dust is all they
know, and dust keeps smothering the spaces in between thought, the gaps of
knowledge covered anew, as paper evens cracks. The tailor arrived yesterday,
carrying his dispirit trapped in a glass jar, empty except for a listening ear.
A stub of gristle marked the removal, but I did not flinch. He eyed me
curiously, seeking evidence of my fear, my repugnance, yet I gave him nothing.
I watched him go, the hours of travel drawn on his back, blank on his face. I
did not think of him again until I heard the cry. The night split in two.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 6, 2019
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