Man Found Dead in Graveyard
The iris, says the newsflash, is a thumbprint. When I rub fists to
eyelids I follow a river down a blank tunnel. Reemerged, I'm
unspecified in an unlit town, atop a hill, washing myself in a river of
irises. (I fingered that flower once, an iris. Split the petal across
my thumb like skin on skin and never touched one again).
From a friend, I received a sketch of a face: Have You Seen This
Man? The man who shows up in dreams? The
same man materializes behind thousands of lethargic eyes. Dreamers come
forward saying they recall his gaze, he's their ex-this/that, he's
maybe a man they used to know. They flash his photograph.
When I dream, it is usually this place, ready-made: a hill I inhabit,
with room for someone unexpected to wash up. Sometimes we build rivers
together, hand over hand pushing water through a blank tunnel. Or we
pinch the petals off flowers, counting. A small act, just dismantling
blooms on a hill I know.
With my eyes closed, it's not my place to say who belongs where. Man on
map. Man with hat in hand. Man Found Dead in Graveyard, said the
newscast. His corpse splayed like a serious star. Amid flowers, I
imagine, amongst moonlight, that perpetual bluish cemetery hue even in
They didn't say whether the man's eyes were closed or concealed with a
hat. I picture some gesture of sleep: hat over face, mouth
agape, maybe hand concealing eyes. Like a man who didn't collapse, but
lay down. Knowing which tunnel to follow, catching up to our resting
eyes like a river.
Ashley Farmer lives in Southern California. She has stuff in or coming from
DIAGRAM, Abjective, elimae, Gigantic, Juked and others.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/201101man.htm
Detail of photo art on main page courtesy
of Brian Hathcock.
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