The unearthed script is sienna
The antiques dealer sells me novels.
His shop sits atop the catacombs of our daydreams.
Such nostalgic things.
And the walls buried beneath the ground remain hidden.
But nevertheless, they were everything to me and you.
The door's padlock chatters in my fingers and palm.
It's near subterraneous. That old cellar door. Each time
opened we'd find another spoke to a lost corridor.
Sienna and ocher reached our noses upon entry, as if a distant
tragedy had been inscribed on the pages of those novels by a
hand that I hadn't recognized or known.
A darkened center cradled by a distant light.
It was all a farce.
As tried and true as things seemed to have been,
nothing would have made the difference.
There was a row of black-capped chickadees.
A swath of grain jutted from the ground, forming
an interlay. A blanket that was as sharp and itchy
as it was wholesome.
The birds had aligned themselves along a low-bearing
fence. The kind that was as common to the landscape
as pitchforks and barley.
Even the stalks of grain were ready for the grab, to be
made into a sprig.
The little feathered hats of black was the cement
that seemed to ensure unity.
We stood in corners of empty rooms. The country
landscape had been photographed and made into a map.
These maps were stored and folded in our back pockets,
ready to be laid unto the fore.
We had nothing else but the want to take the cartographer's
tale to be true.
Tennae Maki is a weekend writer that works for an
architecture firm by day. She holds a Master's degree in Art
History, where she studied architecture zines and urban
planning. On a pro bono basis, she is also the audio archivist
for an arts radio station. Her work has been published in
numerous print and digital literary journals, including; 491,
Spillway, Eunoia Review, Futures Trading, The Bicycle Review,
Lone Star Poetry Magazine, and Belleville Park Pages.