Afternoon Tea With God
God invites me to a weeping willow to apologize for the pandemic
over a cup of tea. I am inclined to accept this proposal,
because quite frankly, I have no prior engagements, and the world
is too pale to be fickle. At five o’clock, we sip tea
on a branch in the sky. I nibble on blueberry scones and watch
the crumbs falling below, as if I can’t fall with them.
When the wind blows, fine China rattles, and the antique silverware
of God shakes in my grip. My flesh proves to be nothing
but an overskirt for my bones. My bones, but an overskirt
for an age-old spirit. We take another sip and exhale
into another hour. Another day that we eat above the people
below. God rubs the glaze off of my cheeks,
but I am not aware that I am being fed. I do not question
who placed me on the branch of this weeping willow
when I am six stories high. Too high to smell the bodies, so I smell
chamomile instead. God’s fingers are an herbal hallucinogenic—
a smooth gloss brushed over the unholy. I cannot see the people
that lie on the grass. I cannot see the people that lie.
I take one sip closer to the day that my flesh will be blown far away
from my bones. Spirits rise off of the steam from our tea
and we absorb them.
where the flies hover II
~ (an elaboration of the diagnosis)
I am a lover of all things defiant in nature, including my father’s
need to disobey. It is the summer of the pandemic
and a dull summer for us all. I have not contacted the friends
I have left in Georgia, because I have made the conscious decision
not to. The news tells us the pandemic is a hoax. The news tells us
there are 63,000 cases in Georgia. Cameras pan over the beach
like little flying robots that attach to disaster. In this case, disaster
is a chili lime margarita and drunk people swimming
in their own sickness. The news tells us to stay in our houses.
My father, upon seeing the news, decides that we must throw
ourselves into this public showing of defiance that reporters call
disaster. He rents a beach house with beach chairs and umbrellas
that will not protect us from the pandemic. He makes his family
an umbrella and spreads us in the sun. Four Arabs walk on a beach,
and little cameras attach to us. I am photographed in a pink bikini
on my last living day. My father tells me to cover up for live television,
but I am immune to the bugs that live on the beach, and after all,
I am defiant in nature. Like other girls, I set up a camera of my own
to document my body, pink and exposed, in a global crisis.
One Response
Great work Athena! Love reading it. Keep it , up in these curious times, with your truly “soul sight full” descriptions.
I have a feeling you will not be at a lost for material.