literature

The Sofa

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Literature Text

Something happened to me today,
          said Emily Jefferson Rosie May.
I fell behind the sofa's cushions.
          I met Ben Franklin and Zander Pushkin,
and they told me how I could build trees
          with leopard hairs and the white wings of fleas.
I've spent all day crafting the plants,
          and now it's too late for me to dance;
I wanted to dance in the shade of the oaks,
          oh how I wanted to eat wood smoke.

Emily's mother was basting the chicken
          and the featherless coat was beginning to slicken
when suddenly our dear Emily May
          thought she saw the bird glancing her way.
A rather odd sight, she quietly said,
          for the chicken did no longer have a head.
After a minute she remembered the fleas.
          They'd bitten her finger; she must be diseased.
To comfort herself she sang wordless songs
          till her mommie looked up like something was wrong.

Her mother asked Where did you learn that tune?
          and Emily said From a bug named June.
The thin hazel eyes of her mother grew round,
          and with shaking old legs she slowly sat down.
Her mother said Emily Jefferson May,
          I find I must say something now, right away.
She started off slowly, could not get it out,
          so she cleared her throat and said in near-shout:
Things that you see are not always true.
          I used to dream I had queenships and golden shoes.

And now look where I am, Emily May,
         I'm wearing an apron and working all day.
Emily May just stared at the floor.
         Her mother didn't trust gold shoes anymore,
and Emily thought maybe if she did
          she wouldn't be slaving to make a few quid.
Maybe if she still had all her crowns
          and her elven-princess hand-me-downs
they wouldn't be in such miserable shape.
          Her mother mopped her sweating nape.

She said There are things I want to make
          that I don't believe in, like foliage cake.
(How dearly I would love to bake
          even one slice of foliage cake!)
Emily thought she should shake out her sleeves,
          which were filled at the time with rust-colored leaves,
but finally decided she had better not
          as her mother continued and seemed quite distraught:
You cannot ride sheep and you cannot catch stars,
          you cannot keep heartbeats in your plastic jars.

Emily May felt that her veins were the sea
          and her mom did not know what she just might be.
She thought of the sofa that afternoon,
          how she'd filled all the cracks, how she'd stared down the moon,
how she'd stocked up her eyeballs with poetic visions
          and helped save a greyhound with expert incisions.
Noise moved in waves there, there was no Doppler,
          and she'd waltzed by the elms with a flame-sized grasshopper.
Tonight she would prove specters could laugh out loud;
          tonight she would sleep with her pillow a cloud.

Emily May knew if she got on a bus
          she'd find the town under where the couch was
and she'd live there and soak her days up with fish.
          And she would take her mother; O how she wished
that her mother still had a heart pounding strong
          with that faith in the stars when the days were long.
Miss May would hit asphalt with a bang—
          her mother put hands up to stop what she sang.
I think it's best my dear, her mother then sighed,
          if for a few weeks you just stayed inside.
Not inspired by but bearing the influence of Pan's Labyrinth (see image). A beautiful movie, even if my Spanish is atrociously poor. The kid looks like Natalie Wood... I really think so.

Anyway I have been all over the place recently, and this is part of that. I don't know. It's hard to be epic in a shrinking world.

So here's one for the children.
© 2007 - 2024 yellowroses
Comments8
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metapianycist's avatar
This is an amazing example of why imagination is important in both children and adults.