Postcard
by Simone Ventôse
I think the walls back home were painted white, and the Modernists didn’t have a say yet, so the roofs were still regular. The best floor to live on is the third storey, where the balcony catches wind and the firemen will reach you but you can’t die of falling, yet. And you can sing to your neighbour across the courtyard, who must be a pianist if you are a chanteuse. A stranger will always rain red leaves in my favourite season over my chrysanthemums. Something in the picture resembles a flag, soft as fabric, easy to hoist, easy to tear, needs to be carried. I am wilted like this, requiring an upright line against the sky to maintain my spine. I don’t trust the ground to crack my neck.
Simone Ventôse is a poet who writes with the belief that everything may contain hints of what was and what is to come. She hopes to make street lamps her co-conspirators one day.