ISSUE FIVE: July, 2020

INSTANTS OF TRANSIENCE

by KATHRYN HUMMEL

Advancing down 100 Feet
—a tragic circus for the obscured dead. Cymbals clamp shut. One man dances in clothes the colour of dust. Following his earthy vigour, a crumpled van rolls a cargo of glum captives. Fleshy rose-heads are fisted down. Street dogs converge, turn over petals with their noses, testing comestibility.

One floor down
a window escapes its frame. Closed sound rounds out into the night. A woman and man stand, deliberate the fixture. Two hands seize the pane. Beyond, their tousled bed; chappals stowed impeccably. The complete scene is mounted halfway between our levels, reflected in the neighbour’s window: curtained, shut tight.

We take an auto
—our last option in a rain-broken city. Dinner and music beckon over the grudging fare. At St Mark’s junction, halted by the deluge, the driver curses a boy on the road. Sodden, absorbed in wretched silence, he steps backwards to the curb—a laminated letter in one slack hand; on his left foot, six toes.

She forgets to draw the curtain
after making fresh. Evening rushes to cool vast embers of rooftops. Across their glowing distance, a man at his leisure scrutinises her naked back. Damply wrapped, she sweeps at the fabric, peering: with the reluctant sun he retreats.

In the intimacy
of a traffic jam, conversation flares: a biker asks where she stays, where she’s from (not to where she’s going). He belongs to this place, a city shedding soul. Her description somehow satisfies: at the signal change he hopes that she has a nice day.

KATHRYN HUMMEL is an Australian writer, researcher and multi-media artist constantly on roaming. Author of seven books of poems, her latest is Lamentville (Singapore: Math Paper Press, 2019). More info @ www.kathrynhummel.com