Mom Spelt Backwards is Mom, Give her a Call
By Caramia Putman
Someone said in photograph he looked like a bird caught mid-flight. Maybe a pin; black and thin. A lover rushing to embrace with the ground. An infant flailing coming out of the womb coming out of the bathtub coming into light. A dark icicle threatening to impale the icy street. To me he looked how watercolor drips. Bumpy lines of fluid begging to find the lowest point, and when found, running into invisible paper veins like blood.
Someone told me if the Earth was the size of a pool ball it would be the smoothest pool ball. But there are still fault lines. There are still things that look like mountains. Inside and out. Someone also told me there’s a new suicide net in San Francisco. When people jump off the Golden Gate it saves them, but the holes in between rope are large. Large enough to break limbs or a rib so people can’t get away.
In the sun windows look like mirrors. There’s a bank with windows that reflect everything with a tinge of gold. When standing at the top of the hiking trail the bank is blinding, especially at sunset. Today the sun was setting. That was how I saw him.
Someone told me when I was a kid to wish on the first star I see at night if I see the first one. If the stars were black dots and the night was gold he would be that for me. I wish there were spikes under every window in that bank. Isn’t that a horrible thing to wish?
Everything is backwards today.
