The Angel of Poetry shook me tonight, but it seemed, at first, that no words would fall from my mouth or hands. I sewed up those wounds yesterday, I told him, and asked to lie in his dark wings.
Some nights ricochet, I wept. Even the rain doesn’t dull self-inflicted wounds. The peonies and roses have surrendered their blooms to the rain, the hidden moon.
There’s still the smell of lilacs we waited for an eternity to open and unseal spring’s nectar. Nothing is frozen externally, at least.
So much is broken—the flower pots, the left panel of the privacy wall, Buddha’s chin, the indoor table on the patio, mantras of composure.
At dinner, I missed the conversations, pulled into the interstices of lost music; the maestro’s hands had become tired, water-logged birds. He knew.
The rain’s steadfast vertical, no slant to wash the windows to watch the world better tomorrow or the neighbor’s wall-sized TV for an explanation of the mass shooter or the plane crash—but his wings were the feathers of black swans.
The Book I had been writing became too heavy to hold. I told him how I ripped pages for folded paper ships; how one match took out the whole fleet.
How one’s ideas of love can become incoherent. How I wrote a letter to the scientist asking him for pills for heartache, for moving to the top of someone’s list.
I left today’s painting, “Melancholy,” in the rain to take some of the brushstrokes away, as he already knew. The uninitiated will not understand.
Wishful thinking can burn out the engine. One wants, at times, to be outside the brain and its frenetic tango. What does it matter what the day is called?
The grass is embarrassingly tall, but at least there was no treefall in the hail storm, and I washed my hair in the rain since there were no stars.
I am tired of being a pronoun, I told him, but he was gone.