A Brunch of Liminality
read by kate conover
I discovered an invisible city last week. In the muscles that cause your pupils to dilate: the knot of the fallen limb eyes me morn-fully over a thin line of change. Lines change. Oscillating between now and then, when and was; spiralling: circular and continuous. Towering and incomplete, I fall to the gravitational pull of your gaze.
All perceptions are inverted upon your retinas' svelte curve. One day I will reach through the meniscus the way that water bends light and skew your refractions. Atropine drops drip garden reactions, grown upside down from tension's reflections which surface. From the wells inside your corneas - leaking like salt pillars crumbling over scrambled seasonings and dawning dehydrations. I blow ripples into dark surfaces to chase away the mists. And find my face. Mirrored. An opposition of the I
Am not: the lamp lit after midnight; light transparent, but colouring in proximity to dull objects; objections raised like a bruise, like a hand, like a question. Light moves in waves. Scattered against interruptions, impeded by atmospheric opinions, saying,
and I thought
don't you mean?
Colour corrected to what I'm supposed to see. Radiant and radiating. Cresting the spectrum of prismatic diffusion, light moves to cross the thin line of change.
That's why the sky is blue.
Spread out against mirages. Because the sun is still visible below this horizon, which expands, tumbling, to encompass the morning after
I found your vision of liminal ex-patriots engendering God over toast. As small talk pours over tea leaves. Glances droop over glass. Folding over centrepieces like. Shadows. When I catch a glimpse of your invisible city in an upside down reflection trapped between water and the crystal vase.
The lilac's leaves are shaped like hearts. Mine are wilting.
© Lia S.