Like a Lord Under the Breeze of Waving Palms

by Edmund Sandoval

Is there ever a time to think of poetry? Of poets? Of the rivers of the delta? There are no Pyramids in Southern Illinois. Yet, Cairo. She called. She came over. The glasses were warm, the drinks. There wasn’t any ice. We put the glasses aside, settled them in the floor, foot of the bed. After a time, we got up. We weren’t tired. We watched the sunset from the bedroom window. We had another and talked about air conditioning. We talked about anything. Forests. Myanmar. The animal kingdom. Charismatic mega fauna. Affairs. The rough and rush and tumble. The windows were open and bugs flailed against the screens. Dust heaped at the corners in gray fuzzy clouds. I thought of driving in my father’s car in the summer and basking in the air like a lord under the breeze of waving palms. We seemed always to be driving south. We never walked anywhere. Such luxury and expanse. She said she was hungry. She said she was almost drunk. I opened a bag of corn chips and we shared them sitting on the edge of the bed. I put on my shorts. The sun filtered down. The windows of the city filled with light. The curtains suffused with damp color, shifted slightly with the weak efforts of the fan. Covered cough of wind. It is good to speak. I told you of my favorite poem. The one where everything is on fire. The world, the trees, the wolves and spiders, ourselves. Yes, you said.

About Author:

Edmund Sandoval’s fiction and essay has appeared in numerous journals including the American Literary Review,l, the Minnesota review, The Common, Fourteen Hills, Superstition Review, and others. He has work forthcoming in the Yemassee Journal. He lives in Chicago with his better half, Jeanne Henry, also a writer.