Hold Your Breath
I can set sail on a piece of wood...
I can set sail on a piece of wood. As I say that, the blond shaving, curled like a fairy’s canoe moored between two reeds, begins to move on the sky-blue river so still that I imagine it is a mirror, though not the two-way kind. My eyes know the way, as do the sun and the moon, toads and turtles, but not the mud that holds it altogether. A lone juvenile bird, I read, flew the longest non-stop flight, going eleven days without food or water, from the North Pole to the South Pole, losing half its body weight to reach Tasmania where it will breed. There was no mention of the return trip home. And yet, I had the sense that the young bird knew all about its future chores, only half of which involved following the stars at night. Most creatures do. They understand every mile they fly or run or dig means they are alive. And some people do, too, whether at work or at rest. So many more than we know can count the beats in their hearts and see in the dark constellations that switch places on the horizon as the seasons go. It is just like that, the surprises of what is original and what is unique, being enlightened by some spare gift of caring that the weak believe is an unworthy trick. But not so fast. There she stands looking down at her grave, knowing those resting within are but bones and overgrown nails and hair. Until this is her place, she thinks, she will not visit it again. She is the last of her family and that makes her free. I can set sail on a piece of wood, she thinks, the tree limbs in the nearby forest suddenly raving in the wind, their sprouts green as emeralds, shining in the sun.
Constance Christopher’s work has been in Fence, Bomb, Northwest Review, & Ginosko. A novel Dead Man’s Flower was published in the Bogie’s Mystery series. She has published reviews for Publisher’s Weekly and worked in film & television. She is painting a large oil based on Robert Graves’ White Goddess.