by Charles Matthew Sauer
Estranged studio apartment (a
shoe box, but a shoe box for graffiti in frames): the
meticulous scrawlings of ink drawings caricature the spilled
bowl of pistachio shells, polished turquoise and pearl jewelry
in a perpendicular frenzy; the redolent plants with dull fuzzy
leaves absorb the shadows cast of city red light paralleled
through the shutter's offings; such a small studio apartment
for Ms. Sanchez. So she took (her only opportunity for
advancement lie with this small computer company), so she took
her chances when they proposed a contract with the music
It felt like morning along the
pedestrian rush-ritual sidewalk, continuous blocks of block
architecture. She dropped change into the paper cup (besides
copper, the cup caught rain water) of a homeless woman, who
sat at the steps of the subway station, who always cried so
Ms. Sanchez was never sure why but cast the "poor
child" as an apparition from her past and habitually
handed her change.
On the office building steps: A bottle in a paper bag,
a cola can, and a foil candy wrapper. She arrived. They drank coffee and
discussed variations, combinations, euphony, cacophony, arranging sounds
from the past:
- 1. They captured sounds,
- moans of not sadness but the whale's immensity;
- black grey being of pure language and grace
- unfathomed below the falling snow and arctic ice
- that rocked on waves like cracking cinder blocks.
Everyone left the office early except Ms. Sanchez or the
selfsame Rosalind. And she began writing at her computer, if only to
capture a reflection of herself in the mirror of words (which she will
gather through little mental windows like roses); milk white roses with
the breath of a name; the milk of the moon. She will drink a glass of
claret wine. She will drink to herself,
- 2. The tintinnabulation of birds in flocks
- fleeing before the torrential rain storm
- in the chaotic assembly of the tropical forest;
- the pattering sound of rain on the leaves
- like the sound of rain on an aluminum roof.
- So that now the name is with her
- in the middle of the garden...
- there stands a rose tree.
- The tree, a woman,
- leans over to kiss Rosalind's cheek.
- Rosalind turns to smile
- (a smile that says, "You shouldn't flatter
- and finds her lips pressed to the lips of the Lady.
- Their hearts pressed so close together
- that the memory of everything
- evaporates into an indigo blue,
- where words are no longer important.
- She dances around the Lady like a rose wreath
- of ruby red blossoms,
- to move the heart of the blooms
- with ruby red dew.
Rosalind Sanchez returned home, through the street lamps,
through the subway (dropping change into the woman's cup) out of the
subway, through the orchestrated trees, the tin cans, the ashen
pavement. The security man let her in. She dead-bolted the apartment
door, recalling the passage of a day. She uncorked a bottle of red wine,
poured a glass, and watched the headlights on the streets through the
- Now the name is with her,
- and she was the name with a black rosary
- lying beneath a rose tree;
- "but wasn't it an accident?"
- She tried to retrace the impression of a kiss,
- (in a computer animated cartoon
- with a body of sleeping flowers)
Previously Published in Mondo Jazz and Z-Axis,
Copyright ©1995, 1999 Charles Matthew Sauer
All Rights Reserved.