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The morning starts like an incision.
Beneath her eyes, ribbed like cockle shells, is a cackling chattering a clamouring that imprints some briny scene, a local deposition from the night before. Except now the projection allows no teasing-out of meaning. The pattern condensed on her field of vision cannot be traced - never at rest, the particles vibrate in vicious autonomy. She is still unsure whether she is seeing spots or hearing thoughts made manifest. The morning has suggested itself fully, serrated on the edge of the curtain. Her effusion has no such boundary. She is locked in the cusp between the prickling night and today's deadening life. In any case, the reality or unreality of her vision - if you can call it that - is of little import. Frothed forth are a thousand memories, already growing painful, like pearls, the minute before their genesis. the earth is deep and eyes are wind chimes in these days when the wind touches people like phantom limbs.
shapes of rifles or limbs appear like heads on sticks hands break out in salt and sweat like dead sea scrolls and calfskin skies are black like the first day of creation your mottled painting of soft fists blooming leaves cloth hands are shadows of unlit candles they illuminate death in an eyelid they can’t taste the light of G-d how it entered the earth soaked through it unable to find a way out. I long to trace the outline of your face
like a blind Tiresias, search the creeping warmth of your blushes for the pattern of the waves that day, when time coiled back on itself like a sea anemone, repulsed at the tenderness of our shared years; when we cared for nothing but the tickle of the spilling breakers on unmanicured toes, and the sun-stippled swarm of colours behind our lids. I long for the time before our thoughts collided on the horizon line, before we drifted out like flightless birds to sea. |
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