cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

waking up indian

Sleep was not exactly mine last night; sleep curled up down the street, and left me staring at the ceiling, counting seconds between Chad’s breaths, and turning the dial up, down, up, down on the electric blanket. 3. 17. 9. 20. 1. 3. 14. I was a safecracker, attempting to steal shut-eye. It leapt over me, one sheep, two sheep, three sheep …

Work was a dream, a book-colored haze, people whose faces I thought I remembered but didn’t floated in and out of my office. Sometimes they knocked; sometimes they just passed right on through the door. Was it ever closed? I miss my Daphne odora there. The yellow roses in my side yard won’t grow, won’t go, too cold. I’ll wait. Roses would look good on my desk.

Suddenly it was just-before-dinnertime, and in the car on the way to dinnertime, I woke up! Eyes peeling stretching sticking open! Food! Friend! New! Lily and Taylor met me at Sher-E-Punjab and introduced me to all sorts of Indian cuisine. We chatted and laughed and ate and I think I’m going to need a second stomach before I go back there. What a meal. I won’t remember the names of anything so I’ll have to try it all over again.

On the way home, I sang at the top of my lungs songs that don’t mean a thing, going just over the speed limit like a good-bad citizen. Sleep is already pretending to claim me, fluttering her skirts at me, flashing that nothing smile. I won’t go just yet, but I’ll go. I always do. Leave me for a moment to the green and fuschia lanterns, tucks and folds of pale velvet and golden trinkets hanging: I am inside a tent of that world, not this one, where food is not eaten but tasted, and where new friends seem so gently, excellently forever-known.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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