Celestial

I.

We are earth and light, water and blood.



"Stop the car. Please, Jakov."

He brakes hard.



A voice, from the dim bother of the present:

"Is everything alright, Mr. Károly?" But Jakov

speaks to a ghost.



You are no longer in your seat.

The door is lonely on its hinges.



Jakov sits agape with glass-green eyes, nervous,

confused as you stand in the heat.

The day is prickly, breathing with fire.

It is a village on the sun.



You are a cacophony of

butterflies and thunder, bones and dust, and you think,

"Is this it?" After all these years,

you are trembling.



"Wait," Your

voice is hoarse. You stretch out your hand.

The light sees it, little rivers of

blue veins and it clings, you

catch fire from the sun and you will it

to catch the boy, please, catch the boy—



"Wait," Your

voice is hoarse but it is louder now,

slicing through thick air.



And sweet baby Jesus, through all the words in your head,

the boy turns.



II.

We are time, we are rhythm, we are all, we are one.



He stares at you.

You could weep.

You are a crazy old loon, you tell yourself,

catch your breath—but you care not and

he keeps staring at you, bony

fingers clutching a painting, skin

the colour of rich soil.

The gold of the frame glints,

winks. Eternity twiddles its thumbs.



III.

Two local kids pass, hand in hand.

They watch for a few

seconds before running—

you barely see them, spectres and

smudges

out the corner of your

eye.



"My name is Virag Károly. I am from

Szombathely, a place far from here." You are afraid to

move—one motion could send the boy

flying and you cannot let him

fly, it has been leading to this it

has all been leading to this and—



"I have been here before,

a long time ago. Mexico City—has

has always,"



you stutter and perhaps he

pities you.



You are a beggar in these streets of

should-be-beggars, but you

are the beggar now and you are

hungry for the painting to

"Turn, please—could I just glimpse—" you are moving

your hands. Something clicks

and finally he understands and he

turns the

portrait and

in every lifetime you

will fall to your knees before

her.



IV.

"Did you know my abuela when she was alive, Señor?"

You tell him you cannot forget, you are a mess

of tears and spit and blood that he cannot see and

she is staring at you and you touch the canvas and with a roar Time

shoves you, breaking your back and once again she is

holding your hand

wearing a scarlet dress and saying "Maybe we

lived a thousand lives before this one

And in each of them



We found each other."

YAY this was picked to win first place!