A Small Act
Committed in darkness, not one to affect the world. From
that day on. The man. Removing part of himself. Almost as if
he was alone. Or at the very least. Surrounded. By laundry. Smelling
of lemon scented detergent. Breath of femininity. And she. Possibly
dreaming, possibly awake. An innocent collaborator. To discover
who he was. And in such a way.
A year of guilt later she had ridden a bicycle uphill to this
high-walled place. A door carved with outstretched arms. Hands
feet and staring eyes. Eyes as blind as balls of wood. A daily crust. Clothes
washed in running water, hung to dry. A clutch of words. The power of
repetition. In silence. As time lessens. The pain, a match scraped over
stone. A candle in the night. To watch each flame disappearing into
its pool around the wick.
A small act. Nothing really to change the world. Committed in darkness.
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© Johnmichael Simon