Prose & Poems
7 NIGHT SCENTED JASMINE
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9 The figs have gone to sleep, but not the cicadas, nor me. Their engine hum is the same each night, scratching the stars into heaven and blistering the moon. The nights are hot and dry and even the dust is thirsty, crying out for rain - the memory of you hangs like a mantle - omniscient and oppressive, tugging at my heart as if to hold me back. 9 Tears scratch at my eyes and mingle with the sweat already gathered there. My throat too dry to convulse, twitches with emotion. To say one’s heart breaks is so wonderfully apt - like a dam wall before the flood, the tears well up, and with a convulsive crack and a wracking sob the wall bursts, drowning the night scented jasmine.
A N I G H T I N A L ACAT I
© Aubrey Kurlansky 2010
© Aubrey Kurlansky : Helena in a bathrobe 2009
ideaaah!s - the work of the AKD studio 2008 / 2009 / 2010
9 The lights are always on around 2am in the morning. A television flickers and delivers a barely audible drone. The local cadre are still in the teashop, playing backgammon, attention turned away from the street as they do every night. A cat skulks, suspiciously hair raised in a snarl. Night is the time for cats and games and slow walks down the same cobbled street, with the scent of Jasmine making bearable the litter strewn corners where plastic bottles gather and conspire.