Unburnt Ashes | Oppong Clifford Benjamin

Unburnt Ashes | Oppong Clifford Benjamin | Poetry

No wife slams the door behind her unless her body is burning inside her husband’s eyes, her beauty no longer in the eyes of her beholder. There’s a home behind slammed doors where burnt wives go down in ashes, tears and washed away love, where they try something like sitting, like bargaining for a breath. […]

from Brittle Paper http://ift.tt/2zQ2pbg

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The Sphere

Photograph by Elena Saavedra Buckley. Once when I was about twelve I was walking down the dead-end road in Albuquerque where I grew up, around twilight with a friend. Far beyond the end of the road was a mountain range, and at that time of evening it flattened into a matte indigo wash, like a mural. While kicking down the asphalt we saw a small bright light appear at the top of the peaks, near where we knew radio towers to occasionally emit flashes of red. But this glare, blinding and colorless, grew at an alarming rate. It looked like a single floodlight and then a tight swarm beginning to leak over the edge of the summit. My friend and I became frightened, and as the light poured from the crest, our murmurs turned into screams. We stood there, clutching our heads, screaming. I knew this was the thing that was going to come and get me. It was finally going to show me the horrifying wiring that lay just behind the visible universe and that was inside of me too. And then, a couple se...

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