It's Still Life

I.
Clouds like smoke.
She told me that in a letter she wrote a few years ago,
that her smoke had gone black.

I remember the smell.
Charred rubber tyres.
It hung in my head for weeks.

That’s the way those clouds looked down on me today.

II. An Untitled Haibun
An old woman, at least she looks older than I am, spoke to me in Spanish this afternoon. Rapid. Frenetic. Tumbling consonants and clipped short vowels, and she grabs my arm, the one with my Cuban sandwich in-hand. Her young companion says, “She thinks you’re a witch, and that you can help her”. I touch the old woman’s hand, it’s cold as a carp, and I smile heartfelt warmth for her, as if a smile might warm her brittle bones. “I can’t help you,” I say with regret. I’m apt to carry her face into my dreams for several nights to come.

The air lingered dry
Like a heart that ceased to beat
In sun-pooled spaces

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2023.