How many mountains do you think you could fit inside your lungs? Skin tight, your edges pressed against by altitude and all those trees you don’t know the names of. When that feeling gets too heavy maybe you can try carrying me instead.
From this height there are stretch marks on the Atlantic, and tiny ships that look like stitches, not really holding much together except men because there is little reassuring about deep water. Doesn’t it bother you, that there are likely to be pieces of yourself in places that you’ll never see, never set foot in? Colours run here and they say it’s possible to catch them—I know this to be true because I’ve seen some of them in your eyes. Put them back with paint and felt tip pen, careful not to go outside of the edges of this country, that country, their country; they aren’t going to know the back or the front of your hands.
Say what you mean but say it slowly, so that I have time to run away. What was it? Yes, I wanted to tell you just how blue it is down there but don’t have words that could even begin; it makes me feel thirsty and worried and like I might need to turn around and leave again soon. The sky looks good on you though, I can see clouds where your stomach should be and oceans reaching their arms around your back.
WORK-RELATED NEWS:
The middle three days of this week saw me in New York, saw me finally getting my arms around my literary agent again, arms around my editor for the first time, and meeting with some lovely, lovely (I do not exaggerate) people who are working on the marketing and publicity for Eating the Sun. My book could not be in better hands, but it still leaves me quite reeling, that fact that it will be in hands at all. The publication date of April 16th has changed from something shapeless into something I can almost talk to in person, and the days continue to get counted off like orange segments.
(The city gave us a snowstorm, and then it gave me sun, and by the time I left all that concrete and glass behind at 7:20pm on Thursday, I wasn't actually sure what I looked like.)
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
Illustrations by Atlanta-based Rachel Eleanor.
Now, back in Seattle, it rains the usual rain, and I watch we-know-where-we're-going legs walk past the water-streaked window that separates dry bodies from wet pavements. I watch appropriate footwear, inappropriate footwear, watch facial expressions made opaque by the grey, wonder whether these people have done kind things today.
The end.
Copyright © 2019 Ella Frances Sanders, All rights reserved.