Aanteekwa felt something whirring
inside her pocket: she jammed a
sweat-slicked hand inside and
extracted her compass.
Peering at the gold-ticked dial,
she watched as the needle pointed
to a shadow in the fabric of the
opposite corner. The dark sliver
ripped open, and a melancholy wail
emerged from its light lorn center.
D.S., is that you? Aanteekwa
called out, standing near a
ragged, blood-rippled edge.
First, there was only stillness:
a frozen fluid ocean, absolute zero.
Then a sea of sobs carried one syllable
adrift to their ears. Yes, he replied.
Yes, it’s me. He sniffled. I’m okay.
Not as long as you’re in that hole,
the musician retorted. Why don’t
you come out of there? D.S. replied:
I am a creation of dreams.
I seek my creator, and the place
where his mind cleaved open the portal
through which I entered space and time.
But why here? Aanteekwa asked.
I thought I might find him in here,
D.S. said. The incense of this place
called me, untangled my heart stuffed
with motley prayers and intoxicating
wishes. When I didn’t find him in the room,
I sought him inside this fabric.
No one noticed Babyface scamper
to the disembodied heart still beating
in the ivory chair and yank the hoses
out of its chambers. Just as it hissed
to a wrinkled death of silence
someone shouted: Who disconnected
that heart! Everyone turned and saw
an older, leather-dipped duplicate of D.S. He
glared at them, rigid eyes of olive steel, and
said softly: you have just killed this place.
We must leave soon, or we will all die.
Written 1/6 and 1/7/13
© 2014 Nicole Nicholson. All rights reserved.
This poem was written for the very first We Wordle prompt over at We Write Poems. I used several of the words: compass, shadow, fabric, melancholy, edge, stillness, fluid, creation, dreams, portal, incense, motley, prayers, intoxicating, wishes, and wrinkled. I started with the phrase “creation of dreams” and went from them, letting the story dictate which ones I used. This is a continuation from the last poem, “Chamber of Horrors“.