Freewrite: “11”

11. Two pillars standing on end. White bone, china, smooth, polished, smothered glass. A surface that swallows. White bellied little beasts. Inch in and baby’s breaths through their yellow beaks. A swallow’s call beckons visitors home. A stranger at the door, a burglar in the house. The whites of eyes navigating unlit hallways. The right hand nudges the door, wrinkled hands, silent feet. Hand on mouth, eyes through darkness. No laughter here, only shoulders heaving… Two pillars, two chains on a swing. The plank, the pendulum, slicing beneath. Bare toes fanned out, wind slipping in between… We are guests here. We are nomads with grit in our elbow crease. We shrug off baggage, our folded mothers, sisters neatly piled and packaged. Our footprints fathom threefold, our shadows engorge streets and climb the backs of anyone who flees.