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.
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.