from the novel Sonnets

19


A slowly shrinking man and a large stuffed condor squat side-by-side on a large cornice. The man, shriveling like a dead nut inside a shell, flaps his arms like wings whenever someone enters the room. The condor, an enormous bird with a featherless neck, remains motionless in the monumental position. Each has wrinkled skin. Each has a knobbly body. Each uses the same hourglass chamberpot. Beyond the pair, large eggs dressed in cotton wool lay shivering in their baskets. Ornithological experiments, the eggs come from Hamberg, Holland, and zoological stations in Africa.

Someone enters the room. It is The Moment. To The Moment, the man and the condor are irresistible twins of a maddened plan. To the man, The Moment is a black cockroach wriggling its tangle of legs. The man still flaps his arms whenever someone enters the room, but now The Moment crawls on the floor of the attic room.

Between the slowly shrinking man and the condor there is bird’s eye view. To each, the other seems a Buddhist sage replete with dignity, honor and grace. Hence, when The Moment flutters its antennas, the man looks at the condor and flies.

You Fall Away From the Fall.
You Become Formless From Form.
You are Fallow.
You are Fallacious.
You are the Topaz of Falsification.


20


Two twin girls in matching flared skirts of tattered blue chiffon walk hand-in-hand through a very old cemetery. The cemetery, teething with tombstones of starlit marble, glitters under the cincture of the celestial sphere. The night is dark. The sky is wide. The cemetery is sooty from cosmic dust. Beyond the girls, a tombstone juts from a fresh new grave. Carved by hand in native granite, the tombstone reads, in English, “No Name/Born and Died.” The twins are the only two people in the cemetery.

Someone enters the cemetery. It is The Moment. To The Moment girls are interchangeable ghosts of a simple plan. To the girls, The Moment is a character that cannot be aroused. The tombstone still reads, “No Name/Born and Died,” but now there are three people in the cemetery: two identical twins and The Moment.

Between the identical twins there is a falling star. To each, the other seems consecrated comet, replete with a heliotrope halo, two diamond strengths and one natural orbit. Hence, when The Moment declares, “Make a wish,” the two twins look at one another declare the other lighter.

You are the Lighter Than Air.
You are the Lighter Than Sound.
You are the Sound of All Suns.
The Songs of All Sins.
You are my Silver Lined Desiderata.


24


A male truck driver tugging a boat heads north out of the combustible city. Another male truck driver tugging a house heads south out of the same combustible city. A female truck driver tugging ten cars heads north by west out the combustible city. Another female truck driver tugging an elevator heads east to west through the same combustible city. The emissions are gray. The city is gritty. The highways are weary from years of weight-bearing. Above the highways, billboards dangle in peripheral visions. Paid for by the products they sell, the billboards display images of cute cowboys and healthy horses. The truck drivers are four of many drivers driving on the highways.

Someone sitting at a desk draws four lines. It is The Moment. One line stretches northward. Another line stretches southward. A short line stretches north by west. A long line stretches east to west. Someone sitting at a desk draws four lines. It is The Moment. To The Moment the truck drivers are directional lines drawn with erasable graphite. To the truck drivers, The Moment is the weight of that which cannot be carried. There are still many drivers driving on the highways, but now a forty one year old woman sits waiting for her dream house in a suburban plot of dirt just south of the city.

Between the woman and her dream house there is a stationary truck driver stuck in traffic. To the woman, her dream house seem a shear impossibility, replete with bad luck, wishful thinking, and two dirty windows to the soul. Hence, when The Moment uses the tip of the pencil to scratch an itch, a mark is left on The Moment’s face.

I Will Be Nude In My New Home.
I Will Be Famous and Famished.
I’ll Be My Own King.
I’ll Be My Own Queen.
I Will Be My Own Dream.


32


Two ghosts dressed in plain pilgrim clothes of black and bone walk in step down the boulevard of their old hometown. The town, a hamlet with a previous population of nine people, is nestled in the fertile valley of small hills. The valley is boat-shaped. The hills capsize. The tide of the town rises and falls. Above the boulevard, the marquis of an abandoned theater reads, “Jesus Saves.” The ghosts are the only pair walking in step.

Someone taps the tip of a pencil on scrap piece of paper. It is The Moment. To the Moment the ghosts are visible stars in the invisible universe. To the ghosts, The Moment is a life that cannot be aroused. The sign still reads, “Jesus Saves,” but now The Moment taps a pencil atempo.

Between the ghosts there is a fisheye lens. To each, the other seems a mountaintop away. Hence, when The Moment skips a beat and shouts, “Heavens!” they each look at one another and declare themselves dead.

Mountainsides.
Of Fountains.
Flounder In.
The Sides Of.
Forever.





Sandy Florian graduated with an MFA from Brown University’s Creative Writing Program in Fiction. She was awarded Brown’s Francis Mason Harris Award for best book-length manuscript written by a female student and the New Voices Sudden Fiction Prize for best story under 1500 words. She is a current candidate at the University in Denver for a PhD in English and Creative Writing. Her stories and excerpts of her novels appear or are forthcoming in the following anthologies and journals: Versal, Identity Theory, Square Lake, Encyclopedia, Beehive, Elixir, dANDelion, The Brooklyn Rail, Issues, Blastie, and Women’s Work. Also, her work has been reviewed in The Sideshow.



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