Woman beneath the Map

A woman at the end of the room laughs,
her face flashing through a sequence of masks
like a pantheon of gods
whittled into wood by knives
and man's other fingers of inspiration.

But this isn't sculpture.
And this isn't dance.
It can only be called, emotion.

Beneath the rusting map
of mountains I followed to arrive, here
underground within this decaying sky of sound,
she sits and becomes the crisp completion
of all the world's appearances.

She laughs
and at times like this,
there is enough pause surrounding each moment
to see the stillnesses
building an afternoon.



by jerry gordon
cafe independants
5.4.6