The sea’s green eyes watch me with care. I have to get my soul out of here, the river is here now swallowing me whole, meta lost in translation. Then there are the difficulties of being a young mother, eating liver. I go under the water of the river, I drown in despair, hardship, tumult, the romantic earth thinking of truth sounds like. It is lit, cause or something beautiful, something divine. Leaf falls and the tall man catches it. The lonely woman kisses his cheek, but he refuses to be drawn into her shadow, her inner music, she must look for a new home, men in suits despise her for her lack of sexual expertise, women in clothes don’t want to be her friend. The lonely woman looks bad in a dress, in a skirt she looks as if she’s trying too hard, as if she’s making waves, but no one looks at her. Not the tall man, not the thin man, not the dark man, and not the sad man. Like a machine, she is half-formed by the virgin sea, by sex, by dirt, by grace. The lonely woman is in search of tenderness, love, a first love, some bright energy that can heal her pain and suffering, the sorrow in her eyes, and she thinks of leaves falling, and the tall man catching those leaves in his hat, with a smile on his face, a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. The men don’t care anymore. The men don’t love her anymore. And now, she must become death, and life, change perspective, become cultured and love the sea creatures that surround her on her educated island. They have no more conversation for her, the men, the men, the men dazzle her, but there’s no room for her in their mansions to grow, to consider, to laugh, and smile, and play, and all she knows is running away, and all she knows is to be laughter, and fragile, and chef. Her voice never sounds like that with me, declares one man, the fattened ghost with his multiculturalism quotes, his isms, his museum, his ephemera. And the clock in the wall is an animal, and the windows are Rwandan, her poetry is an elixir, but all the men, all the men do not care for her, or love her anymore. They have shut the door on her minority. She is an accident waiting to be happen, waiting to be kissed. There was something pure about the day, but when bad mothers happen, bad mothers happen, and daughters who have bad mothers do not become lovers, do not call Romeo, and prose is food for thought, food for the soul, and the title of her novel is in gold lettering but she doesn’t care, because the men are like air.

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