The Parade

© Bowen Blake

I no longer need to sleep. Although my doctors have administered an
array of tests, they can find no plausible explanation for my condition.

Because I can no longer sleep, I can no longer dream. Because I can no
longer dream, I can no longer see The Parade.

I finally found new dreaming in the art of solo kama sutra. Tonight I
choose the apadravyas: on the platform near the window, on my back
with my knees slightly raised, my pelvis tilted to the left, my arms
outflung. In the case of this solo attempt an erection is not
required. I can see out the window if I push my head, straining my
neck, to the left.

Out the window I can see The Parade, and the League of Ex-Lovers
carries their drooping banner high. Men and women mill about, mostly
marching. They wear an array of clothing, independent of the weather:
I can see tuxedos and bikinis and bathrobes.

Some of the paraders are angry, their jilted means evident in the way
they hold their heads, arch their brows. Some are despondent and their
despondence shows, in wilted postures, and dead bouquets held down at
their knees. Some are proud and march with knees high, arms pistoning,
hands fisted around bloody hearts.

Jeanne is among the proud. She's wearing the red sweater I bought her
that Christmas, and the boots and the black scarf. While I watch, one
of the despondent edges into her, and Jeanne and the naked man smile
at one another, hold a gaze, and then touch and embrace. They share
the black scarf, and they move to the edge of the crowd and then away.

Because of my love I no longer need to sleep. I wish her the best, and
I send her my love.