strands – audrey di mola – folkloric futurism

strands.

there’s something strange that rides on the edge of disaster.

a kind of hope, in the distance, in the blinders.

in the windshield promise of the open road.

the fact that even in the heartache..

things change.

again – we were in the car, me shotgun, outside my house. impressionable in college, anyway. i let you cut my hair and you butchered it. but you said: “if nothing changes, nothing changes.” your mom, passed on, told you that. and you still wore a few strands of her greyed hair inside your necklace.

i wonder what i would do if i could pull apart what we are – what parts would i take? wear around my neck? crystallize? lift up to the shelf where all of our myriad objects from journeys get left.

i was moving my clothes and your terracotta incense burner shaped like a church fell. and broke.

i wonder.

the heart is not a metaphor, they say.

what about everything else?

there is a strange promise in the artery of heartbreak.

even in the severing, you take comfort in the fact..

you’ll bleed new blood.

it doesn’t mean –

never trust again.

it doesn’t mean –

never love again.

it just means..

there are more mirrors in this house than i expected.

but i realize now how easy it is for you to look past your own reflection.

isn’t it funny, how we all always say –

i thought i knew you?

maybe it’s not even possible – to know.

it’s just whatever strand of light hits the glass first.