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Michaela A. Gabriel __________________________________________________________
Promethium (Pm) a cold rock ignited. Three, two, one. Spark to flame. Luminescence. A green glow. Like forethought. Like Go. On my ceiling, the shadow of a man who dipped his arms in clay. I saw little figures forming. A plea in their puckered mouths. I did not want to hear. Outside my door, I caught a slip of paper, half-consumed by time. Breathe life into them – the message burned my palm. The gods blanched in their beds. Eyes opened like scissor blades. Like coffin lids. Nothing but void around mute pupils. Even the mockingbirds shivered. At the end of the street, the smell of fire dizzied the flowers. They shook their perfect heads. Whispered of the giant tricking them out of their slenderest leaves. The basket he wove. For all the complementary things. I found it behind an empty house at moonrise. My hands bathed in soft silver, I touched a box. Small. Shaped like an eagle beak. It opened wide as a northern sky. __________________________________________________________
Michaela A. Gabriel lives in Vienna, Austria, where she helps adults acquire computer and English skills,
and gets together with the muse as often as possible. When she's not writing, she is reading, listening to music,
watching movies, blogging, communicating with friends, or travelling – usually several of these at the same time.
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summer 2007 | kaleidowhirl
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