The tensioned rebar remembers the furnace, and the furnace remembers its refractory bricks. This garage, its nested voids skinned in cast concrete, remembers the weeds that once patched the alkaline soil: a caliche blanket snatched away before the garage could dream.
The interlocked slabs that make the garage an empty vessel are kin to those cast alongside the highway. At dusk, those flat planes lay open like palms to a fortune- teller, the seams like lifelines waiting to be traced by a patterned, rusted finger. This evening, a visitor: a lone woman dancing slow, measured flamenco arabesques; her boot-heels stamp out a rock-dust duende, consoling the weeping concrete for what it can no longer dream.
2 comments:
Yup - I really did see a woman, elegant and poised, dancing what seemed to be flamenco-infused movements alongside Mopac Expressway, in the never-ending sidebar of construction near Enfield.
Good one, Lori! Nice imagery.
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