She hates how wildflowers will not open in winter, how birds and leaves drift past the house like strangers on a long walk. Though blind, sometimes her hands flutter at the door but the lock is screwed tight. No speck of dust, no fleck of memory splays forth to recollect the pristine joy of having loved, once. The wings of grief linger in the silent box of her heart while outside, in the reverential sadness of the night, bats swoop and flap past her shuttered, inscrutable house.
Above is a photo of the reception desk my brother and his friend Brian designed for the eDavid Gallery in Bethlehem, PA. Today my local newspaper, The Morning Call, is running an article about them:
"Photos of the Chrysler Building aren't the only steel-themed work in the new eDavid Gallery. Custom furniture designed by Brian Slocum and Joe Klocek of Isosceles Design Studio of Bethlehem has an important place."
Here's what my brother had to say:
''As designers, Brian and I both have a love and appreciation of craftsmanship and of making things that are not only beautiful, but work for the environment and the client's particular needs,'' explains Klocek, who credits for inspiration hanging around his grandfather, a violin-maker, and his father, who painted custom designs on cars for a living. ''A lot of the time, architecture is designed for the architect. It's sterile, it doesn't respond to the environment, to surrounding buildings, and a lot of the time it doesn't even function for the client. At Isosceles, we do client-focused design, and that makes all the difference.''
The furniture and gallery are fabulous. Here is a link to the gallery: eDavid Gallery
So the spring rain is pouring down outside again soaking all the fresh new leaves and rich bark and ground just as it did when I was a child down the cabin on the swing in the damp while mom cleaned inside and dad hammered up that new plywood. I'd stare out over the creek at the feathering spots of the raindrops on the surface, at the tiny flowers blanketing the small clearing in purple-white-wet. Nothing has changed since then; the sound still makes me feel alive and happy to be here.
Don’t judge me she says as I walk in. I know love is a puzzle, but her words confuse more than usual as they fall from blue lips. What is she doing there, on the floor, wanting to be unmade?
Blood does not lie as it streaks linoleum. It doesn’t soak in. It just leaks like a dropped cup of coffee, a wasted taste I lunge for, try to staunch with a dishtowel. It’s too late the tree outside says.
Read poems by David Ayers, Smith Browne, Stephen Bunch, Paula Grenside, Sharmagne Leland-St. John, J. Brian Long, J. Rod Pannek, Elisha Porat, Catherine Rogers, and Whitney Vale.
You remember how the lens squeezed unimportant details into stillness: the essential trail of rain down glass, the plummet of autumn-dead leaves, your grandfather’s last blink when the breath moved on. Your startled hands compressed the shutter when you realized: this is it, this is the last movement he will take away from the silent fall of morphine, beyond the soft gasp of the nurse, past the sick, slow thud of your heart moving in the luminous silence.
Outside the wild sky smears us when we look up— always curious. The birds are flying. The clouds and stars fly.
On TV a rocket blooms and people thrust themselves free of the planet’s atmosphere. In space astronauts are earthed in a cage of air.
Because we all walk on dirt together, biology constrains our space. Here on dirt we live. Here I breathe and rise from the dusty ground. I rattle my windows. I clutch a brilliant red parachute filled with adrenaline and leap—
The sky soars. The flat horizon soars. I fly until this precious freedom disappears into the wind. I gaze at the black moment where air meets space and I fall just as I realize flight is not impossible.
