After Xavier

by Charlotte Wührer

Time to wrap it up, she said,
and sighed
almost stumbled in the dark
last night fences had flown through the sky
today bikes hung from telephone wires
car bonnets crumpled like easter bonnets
the radio said stay inside but no one did
5 people died and the rest of them
blindly side-stepped the million walnut shells
as if they were every day things like milk lids
she stopped at the trees
that lay uprooted in the dirt
split white limbs like bone
took a flashless photo in the dark
and sent it off into the ether
ambulances came and went
she tore down ticker tape with her eyes
hyperventilated for a little enlightenment
like fasting but more breathless
like running but more static
stood still under window number five and hyperventilated
up at the sleeping woman
it was like releasing primary colored
helium balloons at the primary school fair
but more nighttime monochrome
It was like throwing gravel in the films
but softer, her diaphragm hard as stone
it was like opening the dove cage at a wedding
but lonelier time to wrap it up, she said
to get a grip
the sky rushed in to meet the ground
her stomach leapt to meet her throat
the peacocks in the park laughed
the woman five windows up slept
through pinball shots of breath at her glass
and the trees wept resin blankly.

Charlotte Wührer is a writer from the UK. She lives in Berlin, and is studying for an MA in English Literature.

Image credit: Karen via Flickr, All Creative Commons
Image is of small spots of street, car and emergency lights blurred by a mesh screen.

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