Alan Harris reading
Deep Coffee, Alone
by Alan Harris
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Suburbs (proud arks upon a primitive sea) leak. Today a female heart has gone funny-- funny like the strangest way a heart can feel and still beat. Quiet on her white couch, drinking gourmet coffee, she wrestles with inner intrusions not covered by her insurance-- uninvited bass notes are troubling her treble reality. All is in place outdoors-- sunshine properly warming her acre, fertile lawn greenly framing her sporty car aglitter in the driveway, white patio furniture gleaming from acceptably jaunty angles. But indoors, wallpaper blurs near the couch. She cries--longly, profoundly cries. Her architected home has no ears for such snappings of heart, nor is her healthy lawn in sympathy wilting. Her white couch, red car, green lawn, and petite palace of prepared comfort seem like checkers, smart but alien on a board whose game has fallen deep into chess for keeps. Coffee and courage by now cool, she meekly questions the silence: "What is happening to me?" Body, calm. Mind, thoughtless. Heart, electric. Silence, holy. (Cup needs rinsing.) |
From the book Thunderbolt Blooming (1994)
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(Alan Harris)
by Alan Harris. All rights reserved.