small room with an east facing window
there,
on a hill, just over a rise
behind
a yellow house, just past the river
beyond
a burnt-out church
and
a tree with the rope still hanging from it
past
broken glass littering streets of a small town,
after
marches and rallies,
yelling
and crying.
further,
just there, past the city and its riots
fist
pumping vigilantism, cries for justice
and
peace and opportunity
a
little further, across an open field;
the
red house atop a hill,
through
the front door,
down
a short hall with its wooden floor
and
framed memories lining the walls.
enter
a door, a small room with an east facing window,
single
chair up against an old, round table
a
pen lays atop a faded piece of paper,
"Thus,
I rest this last refrain
linger
not a solitary word...
for
I have lived past the moment
and
farther still than I can see."
there,
in the corner of the small room
on
a chair made of cedar
sits
a man, hands folded across his lap,
a
smile of serenity on his face
he
is old and tired, his fingers long
and
gnarled with time.
he
points at me, and then east.
out
past golden fields, over hills
past
small farms and towns and cities.
stand
where your heart beats most loud,
he
says,
and
i take a single step.
tired
another
birthday
blown
on bye
it’s
been a month,
feels
like a day
i’m
getting older, baby
a
fat sad sun lingers
higher
in baleful sky,
clouds
will consume
us
all, well before the dawn
i
lock the closet door,
place
the key in a small
wooden
box, just
in
case i have to go back inside
i’m
getting older, baby
and
the
sun’s about to set
jacklyn henry
bio: jacklyn henry is a genderqueer writer based on the fringe of sanity, Los Angeles. she has had some success of late at: delicate friend, flying dodo, H S T, pink disco, cream scene carnival, and, in a different lifetime, ariel chart.