Bones in the Basin of the City
Pt I- Bones discovered in the basin of my city
Bones discovered in the basin of my city. A bygone era. And I was being buried under mountains of sleep. Feeling only half-awake and the worse for it. The burden of my unclaimed hours weighing heavily on me. Even now, the leaden ache you lent me still resides in my chest. I’m pulling weeds in damp earth. All alone in my mother’s country. My grandparents’ garden. Ancestral obligation. Primal sympathy. Palatinate. Wine country. Losing patience over life and waiting for it to begin. Consulting oppressive grey clouds overhead. The sky threatens to storm. A gentle patter morphs into a treacherous deluge. I huddle beneath a rusted tin roof. I’m surrounded by decay, rotting gardening supplies and pungent fertiliser. The storm eventually spends itself. Clouds retreat like an army in disarray. It reminds me of you. Bubbling docility. Impending storm. Slow to anger. Quick to tears. Later, the garden glistens in muted light, droplets clinging to gossamer spiderwebs, scintillating in the sun. I used to like the colour you take on when the sun sets, not unlike a tawny mountain face when the sun casts its soft light on the rough surface. Inside, the simmering beams stretch over my bed—aureate glands of a breathing world.
And I can breathe too.
Pt II- I can breathe too
We go swimming, and you look surprised when I come up for air. Yes, I can breathe too. Bronzed and sticky with sunscreen, I reappear from the sea’s surface. We share syrupy looks from across the shore, like a scene from my favourite film; the one you didn’t like. Little islands on the outskirts of the mainland, pregnant with tourists. Tourists like you and me. Although slightly less chameleonesque and not as carefree as we present ourselves to be. Colourful canopies traffic the narrow slabs of the grotto. The scars on my skin, white like the travertine stone which I climb to get into the lagoon. Soon I will forget the feel of the mediterranean sun on my body, supine. The baptismal submergence of being in the sea will be lost on me. I peel the dead skin from your back. We jump back into the sea, over and over again, washing off the white ash of the grotto.
Washing off me from you, you from me.
Pt III- Ancient history
Ancient History in the backseat of your car. On the drive back. Flicking through the leftover museum pamphlet. Feeling like those ancient corpulent statues. My small breaths broken into two. Archaeological crumbs. The supposed carnage of yesteryear. I wish I too were made of rough coralline stone. Divine, feminine symbols of fertility. The evening is stagnant, saturated in streetlights. The sobering haze of summer settles in for the night. I wear the memory of the afternoon in the shimmering bronze of my skin. A sun-kissed souvenir. Your reflection is scrutinising mine in the rearview mirror. Your gaze turns sour and I descry a glimmer of cruelty in those inscrutable eyes. I see some semblance of myself in you. You feel like homesickness and a need for redemption. The radio falls in and out of frequency. The white noise washes over me. The crisp reprieve of the night breeze. I realise I’ve only ever been in your periphery. Always in the passenger seat, in the rearview mirror.
You wait for me to leave, and I wait for you to want to stay.
Pt IV- An aversion to sunsets
In the communal garden by the river, I tend to the weeds. I start a fire with old newspapers. Bones discovered in the basin of the city. Before Christ. Miniscule like the ancient corpulent statuettes found in the mediterranean. I’m tossing the gnarled limbs of overgrown trees onto the flickering blaze. I watch transfixed, as the underbelly of those thick branches turn a scorched beluga white against the crackling heat. I swallow all the words I was too scared to speak. With nothing but a calcined pool of white ash at my feet. The sour aftertaste of suppressed speech on my tongue. Even now, the poverty of language leaves me desperate. You were supposed to save me. Now I harbour an aversion to solitude. An aversion to sunsets. An aversion to Mediterranean holidays and the last days of May…
months before the pungent fertilizer, shortly before the decay.
Pt V- In memoriam
The sycamore tree loses its leaves. They’re carried to the river with the garden’s suspired breeze. Like lozenges of lost time, they float on the surface, refusing to sink. I struggle to make new memories while indulging in old ones. Meanwhile you’re already shedding the skin of last summer. The mountain face loses its colour and so have you. That semblance I took to be someone else swallows me whole. I remember now. You always picked unripe fruit, only to complain of its bitterness. You slammed the car door shut. I was never part of your view. The wind picks up again, I might struggle coming up for air this time. I try and capture the moments, but the chemicals escape me. So, I will stay here, starved of sleep. I will remain by the fire. Memorialising past versions of myself. Worshiping images at the altar of time.
My bones in the basin of the city.