October 2018
I'm a retired English Professor spending my time writing, taking the occasional photograph, trying to follow the Dharma. For more about me and my musings: http://www.michaelminassian.com
FINGER PAINT AND BARE FEET
At my aunt’s house,
all the kids slept
in the spare bedroom—
blankets and pillows
spread out on the floor;
staying up half the night,
sleep and dreams
torn off like windows
of gauze and drifting clouds—
the past slumbered
like eyelids on postcards
bursting to be written
and exotic stamps torn off
and pressed inside
the blank pages of books;
then silence again—
each of our breaths
stirring like finger paint
washed away in the rain;
the days and years ahead
like splinters aimed
and pointed at each one of us
just under the skin:
bare feet on cold wood floors.
-originally appeared in Harbinger’s Asylum, 2016.
© 2018 Michael Minassian
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