The void became the beggar’s bowl I’m holding for a body left bloody on the parapet while I’m left howling: “Fool!” For who’s the fool but I left ascribing blame on behalf of those and God became as absent as the salve I have to soothe my aching heart; when loneliness proclaims the evitable demand of having bet a losing hand against the house that always wins. “I forget you are a mother,” he says under guise of light come in through the window; his ribs cracked from the sound he made hitting the ground the night you walked him through a door over the ice when he’d just said “I’m going to fuck your mother,” to an eight year old boy I tucked away like an impolite remark in order to depart again in a waiting cab. While you, I fold like a sheet into a pile small enough to carry in the night and reassure against half-hearted protest it costs me nothing here to underwrite the pounding pavement, when what lures you forth is worth less than nothing even to yourself; the constant inconsistency with which pursued, desire languishes in the space you leave between your empty eye and an absent heart; you sit raging in the silence shaking torment from the windows as from rugs you’ve beat so thin you’ve spoilt with attention what might otherwise consume the footfall of a tired fight. And who is more tired, he–or I? the one who seeks a dove to burst out from out my ready palm which cannot do without a bird in hand yet claims to love to fly. I make so many mistakes here, positioning the splint that I might as well have broken bones myself in this attempt to heal them; apologize to emptied rooms with words you will not deign to listen to when broken glass lends nothing to your certainty of what intention was but that the edge we hemmed out from your coat was just as well the way not me, your mother made it. The fact that you alone seem to be alive makes it quiet in the tower on the days the traveller’s gone.
Some days no one else lives in the tower, while on yet other days it’s brimming over with parading cavalcades of visitors; inhabitants who would rather knock the walls searching for news than hear melodic and refrain the remnant of what’s gone; it confuses them and her– they know she likes to tell them stories– and some may wonder whether she ascribes the dead a passion better lent the living, conflating objects of desire with the gift of giving grief its second chance to spare her no quarter; rather pin me to the ground but while you’re gone I hear such resounding elegies of footsteps down the hall and voices could be anyone in another room when down the way outside early in the morning other lives will pass us as if our motion made alive the reason we decide to call one person our whole body, when clearly there is more than me inside.