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The High Road, Part OnePart 1
Adam J. Thaxton
March 04, 2007
The rain cheered and roared as an arena crowd as Chesstree fumbled with a set of rusted keys, some green with copper flakes and others simply cold and wet. Streamers of water ran down her dark riding coat and fogged the lenses of her archery glasses, perched on her forehead, since the shade brought by the dark clouds overhead obscured the blinding suns light. Her slick, dark violet skin shimmered with water droplets in the light of eternal street lamps, and her red eyes searched the shape of the doors lock and quickly jerked back down to the keys in her hand.
The scent of tar and steam from the previously sun-baked streets rose out over the
dim evening, mingling with the raw smell of fish that peppered the docks. She fumbled once more with the keys in her hand, finally resting on what seemed to be the proper one, and a sharp click met her twitching ears. She looked up, watching the door open.
Who are you? an old man whistled
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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