basket

Don’t you wanna hold all your thoughts close to you? Wicker threaded basket, hardened reeds from the water. Baby Moses in a towel floating down the river. Smells like stagnations touched with the perfume of distant-growing flowers. I hear the trickling of water nearby, but cannot see it past the tall reeds and grasses. Cooing of the baby. We are all saved. I stand in the water barefoot and it is up to my ankles. It feels cool, but gets increasingly warm as my body adjusts to the temperature. But this is a cartoon and I cannot see my feet within the water. So my legs just like like two stumps hovering across it. But I am balanced and that’s all that matters. I put a piece of grass in my mouth and taste its earth. It is bitter and unsatisfying. My saliva generates around it, mistaken. I spit it out, regretting it. I open my eyes to witness the clear blue water to be nearly identical with the clear blue sky. I can breathe more deeply, more fresh air when it’s like this. It’s like applause from Nature. It’s applauding itself. She’s applauding her self. I run my hand across the reads and twirl my fingers in the water, crouching down, trying to see a fish. I get goosebumps from the wind in the air. A slight chilly breeze. I will sit in the water and feel my clothes begin to saturate like I am a biscuit dipped in tea for a long time. Soon enough I was prune and start to fall apart. You’ll have to collect my crumbs in the water. This basket holds towels. I look out for snakes and eels, lurking in and around the water. Life was so much more dangerous back then. But no signs, really. Everything was word of mouth or you got lucky. I’m lucky enough to be sitting here now. I will take this basket back to shore, hold it on my head. Feel it’s weight. At first, it will seem like no trouble at all, but soon after I will be desperate to find a resting place. A genius invention to carry thing. These crisp reads bent to for this helpful container. Before mankind grasped plastics and metalwork and went beyond cupping their two hands to gather food and water and belongings. It’s not suitcase, but it’s a start. The salty smell of sand. Temporary castles no one thought to build. Wondering how much of my mind is collective unconscious. A toga wrapped around my body. I am lithe. Thin and beautiful. I am not myself. Not self-conscious. Tying a knot at shoulder-length to tighten my apparel. I greet other women while I go about my work.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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