glitchwitch

PROOF

by CK WIlliams

Not to show off, but elaborating some philosophical assertion, "Watch
her open her mouth,"
says the guardian of an elderly, well-dressed retarded woman to the little
circle of ladies
companionably gathered under a just-flowering chestnut this lusciously
balmy Sunday.

She moves her hand in to everyone else an imperceptible gesture, her
charge opens wide,
a peanut, to murmurs of approbation, is inserted, though all absorbed
again as they are,
nobody sees when a moment later it slips from the still-visible tongue
to the lip, then falls

the mouth staying tensely agape, as though the news of a great calamity had
just reached it,
as though in eternity's intricate silent music someone had frightenly
mis-struck a chord,
so everything else had to hold, too, lovers strolling, children setting boats
out on the pond,

until the guardian takes notice and says not unkindly, "Close, dear,"
which is dutifully done,
and it all can start over: voices, leaves, water, air; always the yearning,
sensitive air,
urging against us, aspiring to be us, the light striking across us, signs,
covenants, codes.