Day: February 2, 2014

Shadow

/ Clare L. Martin

I’m gathering prose pieces for a possible new manuscript. Some of them are on my website. This one is from 2013, and needs some editing but I thought I would share it. When I get ready to submit the pieces to various lit journals I will make these all disappear.

Clare L. Martin

I have a ring on every finger. The wind is blowing from the north.  I got this blanket at the truck stop.  I wrap it around me like a poncho. I drive through Colorado with the windows rolled down. My knuckles are ice.  Cold pain keeps me awake.  At every exit and entrance to the highway, night empties and refills with light. The U-Haul in front weaves two lanes into one.  My eye’s on white lines and snowy mountains shining in the blue descent of night.  You are always in memory. One thunder clap and then another.  I look to the clouds and the moon for a clue.  What key will unlock you? You in memory, in that black leather motorcycle jacket—you roughed it up good. What you did in it was death-defying, legendary. But you were a young man then. Moments were angel-grace upon you. You grew too thin…

View original post 214 more words

Flight

/ Clare L. Martin / 7 Comments

blackbird

I stand on the edge of a cliff. I believe with all of my being I can fly, (because it takes belief and not wings).  I stand on my tiptoes and stretch. I raise my arms to the sky, draw in breath and ready to soar: one two three— I am not. I am not rising in the air.  I try a different approach. I bend to the ground. Focus the muscles of my back and thighs, tighten my toes.  I tighten my whole body to my body: a coil ready to spring.  Up, and down again. The sky opens. Three crows form a triangle in a deep blue patch. Third attempt: I climb onto a rock. The rock is not flat and I teeter to balance. I desire to fly so desperately; to free myself from the burden of ground. The sorrow of my flightlessness turns to storm. Dark clouds gather in my torso. My arms crackle with lightning. The sky is smoldering black.   Rock upon rock of disbelief weights me. I will never fly. I will never be apart from dead ground. Flags of smoke and flame; the brush and fallen trees ablaze— Frantic fire in my path = no escape. A crow, impossibly large, swoons above me then drops.  On its magnificent black back, it takes me up, up and away.

Acadiana Wordlab product 2-1-14
© 2014 CLM