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Winds Blow Bows: Prose for a Pose Series

When the wind stops you can really start to feel the breeze again. Tiny hairs in constant motion have begun to lose directionality. At times I’ve let the same force take over me. I feel tiny like those hairs; you can sweep me with one look. A nice one gives me warm hope, but the dirty ones make me more honest.

I understand you better today. I can see what you’re trying, and I wonder do you know what to do. The wind has faith in itself, though I don’t think you have a clue. She understands the causalities she’s working with.

On occasion the wind has whispered her distaste for me. With a hot breath, she makes me sweat. She crowds intently, suffocating every inch of life left within me. Movements become drudged while her heated criticisms hoover over me the way a thick fog rolls in on the hills. Every blade of my courage is dampened with a layer of her scorn. Like a soggy bed of grass, I’m soaked with her dew.

As I drip with contemplation, my own breath starts to fire up. My pores now absorb that cynical fog, and I can reciprocate its flavors. I wonder again, only briefly, about the effects of all this laden breathing. We’ve become dragon sisters creating tepid waters as our fumes settle.

I long for such cool winds; the kind that gives agency to dancing leaves. Their rustle awakens memories of a tickling apex. I recall a funny feeling when one’s nature nurtured with irreversible depth.

Smirks and catcalls can make my stomach turn. It almost distracts me from the beautiful filth written all across your face. Your strained eyes are steep. Your scars stain you skin with lines that lie about your age.

At last, I catch a second chance for silence. The wind can be so harsh. It’s not a game of win or lose, but it appears you think so. Time to turn attention; this gusty wind is no better than the rest.

I squint at the cracks in the street, and there’s something bright attempting to survive. Trenched roots give strength to a glimpse of happiness and breeze. Plunging cherry blossoms gasp for air atop it all. I see a plea from death as each branch and bud persuade the O2 to separate itself and give a little more.

Two silhouettes speak; I can make out a pruned man, and a striped one too. One sings of sticky funk, and gunky junk afflicting last night’s mistakes around the corners of his eyes. The other man begged; he tried to put his mind at ease but he was just as stuck as the gunk. Their breaths were as hot as those winds. Their mannerisms all a shadow of themselves, and I worried for them.

About the author: Monique M. Luna is a UCLA graduate, and currently resides in Los Angeles, CA. Her love for writing stems from a never-ending curiosity, and means of merging facts with fantasy. In her daily routine she provides ABA services to clients and families with Autism. Whether in-home, or on site, she uses these experiences to grow and evolve as a writer. She hopes that through her work and writing you are challenged to question, reflect, and accept with love, and open minds.