We meet at a jazz bar, then for two weeks hold hands, even when someone in a crowd tries to stone me, a mysterious moment we run away from together. He sends me perfumed letters and music. We dream of crossing borders to be together.
That stoning in Mexico City is an unanswered question in one chapter of my life; a mystery, like I said. The border here is a literal one, dividing the countries we call home.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.
2 comments:
Why were they upset with you? What boundary were you crossing that upset them so much.
That stoning in Mexico City is an unanswered question in one chapter of my life; a mystery, like I said. The border here is a literal one, dividing the countries we call home.
Post a Comment