Passage

by Johann Sarna

It was humid there. The delicacy of planets in that dream, of one waterfall in the distance, made your feet heavy on the steps. Your feet built them with their insistence. When we arrived, we took the train to the peacock pens. Hello, we called, and behind us grew an intermittent trail of blood. That dribble showed a way we could project. How bleeding asks the world for its own body, queries a broadcast (at midnight), a rose, black hair splayed around the river barber’s bad shoes – I don’t know. We found no seamstresses in the city. Gradually our clothes flayed the air. The tractors sat like hunched animals in the dirt and each rock waited its turn. Departing, already in the air, the plane shook gently. Like a phone vibrating in the pocket of God.