I was speechless. That never happens. I should have taken off my shoes but was so conscious of the time and of my leaving. With intention I memorized the pattern of flecks in each iris. With intention I wondered what would happen now and which outcome to even prefer. In some future I may sell Viagra while she assembles collage. I may be somewhere wanting while she is somewhere wanting. I may be just an anecdote while she is just an anecdote. The flecks are in gold and hazel like the chiseled lids of canopic jars and if I could reorient myself within her I would see the secrets they still keep. I should have taken a picture. I should have taken a thousand pictures and reassembled the room like David Hockney the better to pick furiously at these same knots and get nowhere.
...
Fuck that, that's not the truth. That's not the whole of it. That's caution and artifice and sensible boundaries.
Truth is when you look at me I spill lillies from my throat.
No comments:
Post a Comment