Fables: Bruce Bond
Fable 1 There will be days every journey is a journey to a home we lost for good, and so the man in the last pew fingers the map in the back of scripture, or a blind hand reads the face of a stranger and sees the features of a father no hand has seen. There will be days every room becomes that boat afloat a city whose winds took the power out. Stars will be sharper then. The knives of paradise will glisten in the meat of constellations. Hunger will be a feature of the sky. We were born to belong, to withhold what we must to let the conversation trickle down the mountain of all we cannot say. Our affinities depend on it. Especially now. As the storefronts close their eyes for good, and people vanish. One promise fails. Another comes along. I too was no one once. And when my mother left the room, I crawled through a hole in air. I was born again into the world where everything was talking, every block and candle, every kettle with its tiny scream. Every little miracle desperate to be heard.