There was no electric light, but so much sun in the tropics, and bunches of bananas strung from the ceiling, yellow chandeliers by day. By night, bats flew to them, hollowing out the fruits and tunneling entirely inside the extra skins. Our skins and bodies were shown and shadowed flawless in the lanterns’ slight, forgiving light. For years, only smoothed forms exited beds, unbent from wash tubs. How could today, compared, look? Thinking back is a burrowing, a blinding, slipping deep into the past’s pulp, scented and pearly. The sticky wings fold in and still—
Rose McLarney | To Tell Us Why We’re Here Contents | Mudlark No. 51 (2013)