ANGEL OF POETRY [stanzas 9-12/end] The note I found underneath the book when I lifted it to smell her hair—instructed not to open under any circumstances. "Iimagine the sentences I have written here for you. Sentences & stanzas about you, about us, timeless as stone.” Hour upon hour upon nights of little or no sleep, I formulated her sentences. I knew the cadences & rhythm of her eloquent speech, how she usually spoke in meandering long cascades with a short thought interposed here and there. I’m not sure if those succinct breaks were for her own benefit or for me—a resting place after wandering through so many complex syntactical machines. The night she returned I scrolled the window panes open in my bedroom & cooed to her bird noises. She handed me a large feather pen that she made from a fallen sea-bird that had misjudged the cliffs. Its eyes still open & staring at the sky she said. I hastened her to the shabby kitchen table, to the orange book. My impatience palpable, she unknotted the stone from hemp & held my breath as she opened to the first page & quickly turned all the pages with her thumb to expose a completely empty journal. Bereft, heartbroken by her betrayal, I expected her to be laughing, mocking me. “Write what you burned in your memory during your half-sleep or no-sleep nights. Don’t be afraid. We are stone.”
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 07:33:03 +0000
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