Her book was on the kitchen table. Patiently waiting to be read. The weight of too many winters pulling the curls from her hair. Ambient eulogies in shudders of cardboard. The ambivalent anarchy that is hopelessness.
The messages waited impatiently as she traced her footsteps. From the doorway to the chair. From salvation to surrender. The stoic algebra that is sanity turning wide eyes into calculators.
Her book was on the table, but her eyes were on the stove. As it counted down the seconds untl the pie was done. The apples all in an uproar. The crust mad with indignation. As she scorned their warmth in favor of the cold out there.
The nothing turns like a screw through this cork. Not opening this bottle to the world. But allowing the world to drain it.
Or else it was always empty. And now it's so certain. Inoperable cancers tell their stories in squeaks and dribbles. Our attempts to live. Incurable diseases. Draw the outlines for our portraits.
And we are all artists. immortal because we know why. Or once knew. Why we're still alive.
The coma close enough to marry.
Monday
2/19/2007 11:29:00 PM
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