Season’s Shedding by Mathias X
I’m looking for my bowl of roseleaves stained
by Development. Static. Run your fingers through
lighter petals as they unhinge from pistils.
Seasons pass, like stagnations of dreams about
a rose-garden filled with conspiracies: that an
eight-metre-high sunflower will grow instead,
reach over the wall and migrate into the next,
where we begin again. Picture that.
If you pour water into the bowl and swirl
the petals until your reflection is a dappled reminiscence –
a frameless gateway to a memory where
all the rooms are freshly red, still rendering
into definition while the rest of the sunset loads –
until the petals are bleached and swollen and
drunkenly loll to the surface, you will see that
This is rebirth.
I’m looking for my pen that danced along a laundry line across the courtyard,
flagstones staining orange while the sun sunk towards the horizon,
which is that thin thread between yesterday and tomorrow,
looking backwards and forwards. Orange is
what we are right now: the yellow glare of closed shutters
behind; in front, the Redness of branding
figures into photographs, of autumn leaves and
of dying embers, of beginning again.
I’m looking for
my drawstring bag of marbles that jingled with childhood and possibilities // the scab you flicked off my leg like lint into the evening (by then yellow at the edges) – it hurt, but you promised blanker skin would blossom from the blood – // the snakeskin which Kaa left on the forest floor one night // the bubble, still raw and full and shivering with fragility in the breeze, before it hardened into a snow globe // the orange pinpricks speckling an immature apple // the tear before it slipped from your eyelid as the pollen swirled in the air like roseleaves.
In short, I’m looking for fragments
of your reflection that I
lost after the sunflower shut out the light.
That’s why I talk about you in the
present tense, Ma.