I am (Jack's) spilled kerosene lamp. There is nothing left to burn


This creative writing homework takes me hours, but I love it. When I'm writing, and not just blogging like this but really writing where the words blur together and the sound is a moist and plush and mine

In the fall, I am going back to Africa. I am going back to the tree that was hit by lightning, and the hibiscus I pressed to my face, the honey suckle, the bare feet, the orange dirt and begging children. I am going back to the place I forgot so I could get on with my life, but that I need back now. I need it back.

When I wake up tomorrow, I will still be tired. More, maybe. This is the first time I have ever had this sensation, where I feel my head tensing into a crouch for the dreams that will enervate and then almost-linger .

And somewhere in my conscious there are lush tropical leaves that unfold like so many wings