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Raymond Fault, Los Angeles
Last night, the night-blooming thorn apple opened,
its white nightgowns strewn
along the edge of the road,
and hundreds of moths skipped from silk to silk.
We were tripping on mushrooms and I could smell my mother’s perfume,
Trigger-warnings around every corner,
the danger of our ordinary lives.
We stood on a precipice, overlooking the city, its dazzling lights
beneath the thick air of a storm
and its dark arts coming in over the threshold of the sea.
Thunder like gunplay in the canyon; lightning flashes
the chaparral and chemise, the flare in its bones ready to spark
at a moment’s notice. If I had one of those scrolls,
I’d put it in my mouth.
In the morning the news said a human head had been found,
right along the road we had walked.
Twelve hours ago, estimated time of death,
the features of the face, they said, still fresh.
its white nightgowns strewn
along the edge of the road,
and hundreds of moths skipped from silk to silk.
We were tripping on mushrooms and I could smell my mother’s perfume,
Trigger-warnings around every corner,
the danger of our ordinary lives.
We stood on a precipice, overlooking the city, its dazzling lights
beneath the thick air of a storm
and its dark arts coming in over the threshold of the sea.
Thunder like gunplay in the canyon; lightning flashes
the chaparral and chemise, the flare in its bones ready to spark
at a moment’s notice. If I had one of those scrolls,
I’d put it in my mouth.
In the morning the news said a human head had been found,
right along the road we had walked.
Twelve hours ago, estimated time of death,
the features of the face, they said, still fresh.
Posted 10/19/15
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