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Trina Stolec |
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I Have Nothing To Wear I walk in the walk in closet, survey long line packed so tight each item comes out looking like it spent two months wadded on the floor. Still, I have nothing to wear, nothing here suits me today. So much of it is suits - tailored tweeds and wools, material that declares AUTHORITY to every eye it touches, passes by, ignores cotton subordinates. There are memories I don't dare part with bought mostly by well-intentioned family at a time when I needed the authority wool and tweed bestowed to show I was competent, successful, worthy, and just like everybody else. Remnants of The Before Time... before I knew money always powers the system before I knew change is impossible before I knew wool and tweed are scratchy. I don't throw these suits out; there might come a day when they're useful, and sometimes I do wish the royal blue one still fit. For today, I grab a cotton peasant skirt whose wrinkles look like they belong. The tweeds and wools wait patiently for me to grow up again. I Saw An Angel In The Night Dry spring... wet summer... corn stalks six feet high on both sides of the dirt road. Fog patches a spotty ceiling over the tunnel street, limits the distance car lights can seep into the night. From behind, the sky light like a halo an angel descending to smile on the field, fly through the tunnel like a child on a tube slide. Shivers run through leaf and bone as all living things move aside for her to pass, bring day to night with an eerie, comforting glow, wrap the road in a soft blanket until the fog breaks and it's headlights of another late traveler blinding from behind. Old wives say for every fog in August, there'll be snow come winter. People will die this year. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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