Ode Through a Thickness of Yellow Plastic
“Listen. Our voice is in the language of your trees, the songs of your birds, the low vibrations of your tectonic plates.”
Somewhere between the human dream of leaving and the human dream of home, you could hear the sound of our lament. You could not decide if it was your own.
It startles you awake, filtering through the new season. Like your language but with different glitter and beads multiplied in the tube of mirrors. “We have responded to every one of your probes, capsules, and transmissions.” Each time you forget.
This suggests a suffering nature. You prefer to think yourself alone, speaking the outsider tongue with all your insides exposed. WE CAN HEAR YOU TRYING TO SPEAK, YOU TRY AND TRY AND OCCASIONALLY YOU FINISH A SENTENCE. THEN SEVERAL DAYS PASS IN WHICH YOU SAY NOTHING AND YOUR FEAR OF THE SILENCE MAKES THE SILENCE STRONGER. YOUR FEAR PULLS WATER DROPS APART AND FREEZES THEM IN THE AIR, SO THE AIR IS EVEN MORE SILENT THAN USUAL OR IS IT THE CLOUDS THAT ARE SYMPATHETIC, CONTRACTING IN MEMORY OF YOU WHOSE VOICE HAD MATCHED THE ONE THEY COULD UNDERSTAND.
“He believes he knows where they went wrong, and is determined to correct the annihilation of life.” The collective dream of fossils having form, and colorful skins in a time not your own, of a richness you hope is in the future.