Facing East

by J. Naomi Cislo

 

As if it were possible,

if it were Alice

in Wonderland, redux—

 

Then a river would curl

the width of a nickel

and flow in tumult

through his right cupped palm,

cross the air,

wind judiciously

through her fingers

as it rushed under earths-pound-per-foot

pressure, down the length of her arm

and waxed back on itself,

having butted up

against her sleeve.

 

And the air

was neither heated

nor air-conditioned,

nor dank, nor odorless.

Not see-through,

not there,

but measured, by the

white-washed walls

and dripping

from the chandelier lights.

 

It made her cough,

and he dropped his eyes

and the end of the world passed

between them—

a ray of sun

from the factory window

facing East.

 

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Ms. Cislo left her life as an editor of dictionaries to spend her full days with with her dog “Buster Keaton,” walking in the woods and fishing at the lake.