For Miranda


Bring flowers to the invasion

Bring flowers to the invasion

For Miranda, on the occasion of her thirty-second birthday

The ship rocks from side to side; no one knows where it is going.

At the end of the passageway which runs through the ship like a spine (the bulkheads are the vertebrae and we are the intermittent signals) I pass through a hatch onto the bridge.

In the darkness on a screen the sole illumination: a blinking red light.

I walk over to the console and throw a switch. Somewhere a relay closes; I presume it clicks.

The flashing light is replaced by your steady gaze. On the screen in the dark you begin to speak but I hear nothing; there is no sound apart from the far away creaks that creep through the vessel.

I watch you, the translation of your being. The lines of your face gather around your eyes, frame their magical essence. Your mouth moves; your beautiful lips.

I flick another switch. A crackle in the public address system and then your voice emerges from the static; manifests and is distinct.

Throughout the bridge, whose dimensions seem unfathomable in the dark, your voice sounds the depths. You speak of things that have not come to pass; of the future of man and of woman. I mouth your words and wish them never ending upon my naked lips.

Soon I notice there is no connection between the sound and the vision. I see you smiling on the screen as the recording rattles on, expounding the strangest of metaphysical whimsies.

The screen flashes to an end, holds your smile for one last gorgeous breath before winking out. In the utter darkness I feel my way back to the hatch, unsure of what has transpired; the passageway beyond fills the entryway with its wan light.

I pass through the hatch and trudge off.  The crackling broadcast fades behind and is overcome by the white noise of my lone passage; and the hum of the ship; and its mysterious destination.

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One Response to For Miranda

  1. Pingback: The ship, that rock – part 2 | works & days

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