Joseph A. W. Quintela

Parabola (For Lazarus)

Throw the curtains open. Light! Light! A caravan of dust caught in illicit drift. You trade the day for hours. Hours for minutes. Minutes for seconds. In the hope that you’ll buy one second that’s precious. It’s foolish. But you don’t care. Comb your hair in light-bathed, dust-strewn rooms as if the stranger in the mirror is destined for escape. Tear the curtains from the rod to wear as a burial shroud. And then rise.