The pretense is what really redeems. When
\nbirds fly, it\u2019s the body dumping the soul, or a dive
\nbar opening like a portable mattress, only less
\ntheatrical, less than what we hear about girl
\nin a tree or a feather falling. The pretense<\/p>\n
is the bar where he held so many bottles
\nand so few women to his lips; topaz, citrine,
\nburied treasure, lost like feathers
\nof rainforest trees. The blue
\nshadow, her eyes, open, blue and clear against<\/p>\n
lashes, her head lying on a pillow, frightful
\nto remember when the sun shows up, uninvited,
\nrising over the trees. He would reminisce about
\nneon lights and the parking lot where girls would lie
\nabout their age. The parking lot remembers only cars<\/p>\n
left until morning. Remember the girl he saw,
\nbloodshot in brake lights, who he heard
\ncrawling in gravel. From his bed he listens to a mattress
\non which a girl is jumping. Pillows can kill, feathers,
\nand only trees can stop them: Ailanthus,<\/p>\n
planted for its beauty but whose flowers smell bad,
\nis the hated of whom is crawling the parking lot
\nlike bar feather birds. It could never be drunk
\non rainwater or blue as she could be to those who
\nspoke to her or lie beside her on an inflatable mattress,<\/p>\n
even now with leaves about to fall and trees dying.
\nPretense is never what he needs in times like these,
\nbecause it works below the surface, requires digging,
\nand shovels make him tired, even if he hasn\u2019t been
\ndrinking. Death is no bar, bird, or bed to rest in.<\/p>\n
Remembering sounds of the parking lot, he hears
\nher again, listens to an argument against something
\nbut is not persuaded; he didn\u2019t lie about his age.
\nThe pretense, she said, would redeem him,
\nfeathers around a bed, a tree for a man who crawls<\/p>\n
across gravel and likes to drink
\nand sing until the sun\u2019s up. What he sings is
\nthat he no longer listens. Shovels remember:
\nthe shadow, what is so blue on lids of closed eyes.<\/p>\n
The pretense is what really redeems. When birds fly, it\u2019s the body dumping the soul, or a dive bar opening like a portable mattress, only less theatrical, less than what we hear about girl in a tree or a feather falling. The pretense is the bar where he held so many bottles and so few […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[17],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-2b5","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8375"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8375"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8375\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10184,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8375\/revisions\/10184"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8375"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8375"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8375"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}