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Sport 38: Winter 2010
Joan Fleming
Joan Fleming
Bats
The bats he carried around on his shoulders troubled the women he met. So they drove, very slowly, back to their homes and posted him second-hand books with no return addresses, and this they thought clever. The bats slept as he slept, woke as he woke in the night, mosaicing their leathery wings over his wretched hot body until all he could swallow was the looking-forward. The women, meanwhile, found themselves noticing the dishwater—how glittery the soap bubbles seemed! We're changed! they thought, marvelling quietly at their wrinkly fingertips.
Dust
The others all began to dress for dinner as she went off to bury the bird. With a leather glove which made her think of falcons. And the cat, the beautiful cat, was having a dust bath. Killer cat, opportunist. But I love the cat. Thoughts came, as she dug with the glove which made her think of eagles and powerful things which wouldn't give a toss about their own reflection. Hollow bones fly easy, easy go. Scribble flight, finished like a shaken pen. Perhaps she was feeling too much. Probably the bird saw itself in the window, and became territorial. Just a common, everyday, dusty, dust-brown.
Grains
Tonight he walks twenty kilometres along the beach. He's preparing for a mountain. His breath tastes of fish, fresher than plates. The salt-and-pepper sand he's counting. Things are slower here—steps, dinners, waking. The horizontal horizon! Things make more sense. He reaches a curve in the west, then turns back.
Proposal
Blameful and unsung, they remove the fists of their hearts and try to trade. Her entire face is unrestrained, and she lacks the inner reins to keep it otherwise. His entire life feels untrue. Do I know why they came here? Do I have any idea? I do, I do.
Letting
The pen-and-ink things he draws are creatures or towers or storms, or nothing at all. He's just moving his hand, tapping and letting and trying to get out of his way.