Mortal Weekend

Mortal Weekend

by Allison Hummel

The ground might rise
beneath you, like bread.

Things might descend
to meet you, as if

borne by the voice
of somebody very tall.

I might wish I had one
mortal weekend,

things like laundry
and coffee and ramen,

the dreamt-up shape
of Otto on the couch,

the dark low hills
of Brigitte Engerer’s hair;
she plays Schumann’s Carnaval.

I might wish something
engaged me like a fisherman’s
hook,

alternative to faith,
anathema to my cloudy wandering.

An inversion of need,
brought up like the wreck of a car
from a lake,

when metal cedes to
sloughing oxide
dust,

hair becomes liquid,
we become aged;

this is my dream
of what a nice summit
might look like.

“Folded Laundry” by Tajreen Akter