MELITA
She watched as Lusea’s became the first (of many) to be inducted along the wall, all alone up there for now, lanterns and entanglements of décor placed to enshrine, to remember, to immortalize for as long as the threshold stood. It seemed right, fair, and just, and still saddening, a despondent little crash and conflagration in her heart. It came together too, in those nuances and notions, her eyes ghosting over the fragments, the symbols, the paradigms and paradoxes of a woman meant to be in flames, rather than in dust or ash. But then Sunjata turned back to her, and she nodded; it was her opportunity, her chance, to maneuver Clementine’s reflections, emblems, metaphors, and representations – and something in her chest sunk, that she’d have to do this all over again. Her hands went to her bag, where she pulled out the lantern she’d made for prior festivals, the curlicued blossoms painted on their metallic ramparts, lifting it along shelves and hooks, then stepping back. She returned to her satchel, fetching the sweet wildflowers, the adorned thistles, the downy, soft petals in various blends and hues from places and visits to forests, to fields, to clover, to honey, to glades and copses that held repose and sanctity. The girl twined them together in her hands, the stems woven and twisted, the leaflets curling and coiling, the dulcet rancor brooding in her movements, until she anointed them all with a shaking, shuddering breath alongside the lantern. All of it committed in silence, uncertain of what to do or say, how to honor another she’d loved and then lost.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
