Fantasy From Afar

Come walk down the same sidewalk with Dante Yardas.

 

Sometimes I am certain that you

are exactly the same person as me,

but in a different form, as if

we were constructed from

the same spirit, but inserted

 

into different body shapes,

with different parents, the same

shade and saturation, but contrasting

colors, separated by mountains,

freeways, and missed connections

 

and one day we will stroll down

the same sidewalk, and great

vibrations of heat and illumination

will reverberate in the air, and

all the pigeons will feel vertigo

 

and crush their tiny heads

against the trees, and a sad sight

it will be to see five to ten

pigeon carcasses strewn along the

ground. But as we grow nearer,

 

your mirror image of myself

opens a hole in the clouds,

and now the trees are splitting open,

shafts of light are emanating

from the cracks in the sidewalk,

 

and you continue to advance closer

to me, because we  had been

waiting for this moment for

our entire lives. And yet I wish that

I had brought along with me

 

a ring, a golden watch, a shining

diamond, even a small flower

then I look to the ground and

I see one of the pigeons,

its eyes barely open, uttering

 

small, pleading chirps, its

wings flapping helplessly,

and then I see that you are

looking at the pigeon too.

So I lower to my knees,

 

and I scoop the little bird into

my hand, and I present it to you

like a goblet of spring water,

a vase of daffodils, (or maybe

like roses?) and you take the pigeon

 

cradling it in your arms like a

newborn child, and I see a

million questions in your eyes,

questions that don’t need to be asked,

questions that don’t need be answered, and

 

as I envision this fantasy, I inhale the

rain in the morning. The water on the

chair is soaking through my

pants. A crow lands on the table,

 

I try to brush it away, and I

realize that my cheek has been

resting on my hand, and now

my hand feels numb.

 

By: Dante Yardas

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