The Wooden Boots
Spikes hydroplaning over the rubber, my stride powered with deftness.
I collapsed victoriously to the track, pulling my knees against the chest gasping for air.
Mary rode through on a stallion brushing by as I slung my body on top its muscular back.
The beast made a whinnying laugh, wrung its bridle in pent-up circles and cut ribbons through the barley field.
Seated on a barn bench was an old man wearing orange wooden boots carved in the shape of the Santa Maria.
She warned he was prone to speaking nonsense, so I kept to myself unable to stop thinking about his beautiful boots.
Cinderella hour nearing; soon my pathetic needs would sour the air with demands for constant affection from Mary.
I grew terrified and stole away out back to the horse barn.
Dawner aided me to the edge of Bowtie Creek where a row boat was rattling against the cypress.
A blanket of trout flopped in the hull washed in lantern glow.
A wedding dress floated by sprawled across the water like spilled ink, followed by
tuxedos, daisy crowns clinging to frost-shocked petals, an unclothed women face down and swollen blue.
By morning the vessel had beached on a white bar where the creek contorted into question mark.
High on the bank a dove cage was left open, beside it was a girl showered in tears.
We both sucked down raw trout and with every swallow her skin's blush rose’d.
Skeleton balloons whipped around a spanish armoire, its ruby grain beaten out by the sun.
I shut us inside passing the evening scratching valentines in the boards with our fingernails boxed up in the sweating heat, we grew thirsty.
Two pairs of hand carved clogs lay in the corner. We slipped them on and began to dance, nutmeg singeing our nostrils as the wood dusted itself off.
The strange man opened up the cabinet doors soaked in river wet clothes leading Cassandra and myself uphill where fireworks bloomed like dandelions.
He expressed a deep delight that I was able to make it to my wedding, every word making perfect sense.
The clogs began to hurt my feet; I bent down to slip them off, but the small man stopped me. “You mustn’t do that, you can’t ever do that!” He demurred with nervous angst.
Wearingly, I waited for the unseen woman; Cassy beaming on my hip gorgeous in her flower crown.
Her naked skin riddled in black water moss, eyes that had been hollowed out by crayfish, she strode up the carpet of pine boughs.
I tried to back away, Cassandra’s smile deepened; the very peculiar man held me in place “Quit fidgeting, stay still.” The bride circled me, it had Mary’s mouth and it moved. “Forever”
Classic with its diction and the spirit of timelessness. Imagery should be crowned by favour. Beautiful.
Fascinating and surreal...Imagination reaching fevered pitch, somewhat reminiscent of Rimbaud. Recommended.