"Aguirre" by Matthew Fertel
K. Kannan | The River
It’s so easy to picture death: not of
me, but of the girl hanging
sarees on a clothesline. Ignorant to sorrow
on her terrace. Dusk
swallowing her deft fingers, her mouth
open like a well--pled
fullness in monsoon. Glass-eyed bugs
skating across the surface.
The heatstroke is always gentle, always
present when I pass her house. The river
rushing with fever. Body leaning closer
in currents. And sometimes, the girl
edges close to falling, and I cup
my palms as if to catch the rain
in silvered slits. Once, I prayed
she grew wings. I showered
jasmine petals on the temple floor
and nothing happened and
I was sad. I ran along the riverside,
streetlights unclenching their fists
along my body, practicing a
new form of silence. I ran past
the house of the girl who might
have fallen in another life. She had
no wings, so I dreamt of her ribs
that night, their aching warmth.
Our sweet surrender to the pulsing
stars slowly dying for us, above
us, nothing behind us but for the river
unspooling—the river,
our roaming constant, the only god
who’d dare love us back, the only idol
to damn what we left of ourselves to
the waking dawn.
me, but of the girl hanging
sarees on a clothesline. Ignorant to sorrow
on her terrace. Dusk
swallowing her deft fingers, her mouth
open like a well--pled
fullness in monsoon. Glass-eyed bugs
skating across the surface.
The heatstroke is always gentle, always
present when I pass her house. The river
rushing with fever. Body leaning closer
in currents. And sometimes, the girl
edges close to falling, and I cup
my palms as if to catch the rain
in silvered slits. Once, I prayed
she grew wings. I showered
jasmine petals on the temple floor
and nothing happened and
I was sad. I ran along the riverside,
streetlights unclenching their fists
along my body, practicing a
new form of silence. I ran past
the house of the girl who might
have fallen in another life. She had
no wings, so I dreamt of her ribs
that night, their aching warmth.
Our sweet surrender to the pulsing
stars slowly dying for us, above
us, nothing behind us but for the river
unspooling—the river,
our roaming constant, the only god
who’d dare love us back, the only idol
to damn what we left of ourselves to
the waking dawn.
K. Kannan (b. 2008) is a first-generation Indian-American writer. The Editor-in-Chief of Blue Flame Review, a literary magazine publishing science-themed work, she also serves as an editor for Renaissance Review. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming from Pidgeonholes, Paper Crane Journal, and Ice Lolly Review, among others, and has been recognized by Write the World.
Matthew Fertel is a Sacramento-based photographer who has worked in the Photography department at Sierra College since 2004. Before that, he was a fine art auction house catalog photographer in San Francisco for over 10 years.
Matthew's current work focuses on capturing the minutiae he encounters in his daily life. He seeks to expose the hidden beauty in the everyday objects that make up the landscape of our existence. Going to the same locations over days, months and years allows him to capture images under different lighting and weather conditions, and to see objects change over long or short periods of time. There is art hidden everywhere if you learn to see it.
Learn more at his website and on Instagram.
Matthew's current work focuses on capturing the minutiae he encounters in his daily life. He seeks to expose the hidden beauty in the everyday objects that make up the landscape of our existence. Going to the same locations over days, months and years allows him to capture images under different lighting and weather conditions, and to see objects change over long or short periods of time. There is art hidden everywhere if you learn to see it.
Learn more at his website and on Instagram.
