In childhood, my father loved his meat and potatoes.
Once there were towers. Towers of the radiant sun.
Thrones of them. My sister is queen. My brother king.
Curbing anything oceanic. The stalks that grow from
This world are like any green feast. They are perfectly
In rhythm with the sleepless sea, that mocks me. I have
Found so many people now that worship my fear
For them. I anchor myself in the closet behind winter
Dresses I will never wear. Protection needs order,
Routine and gravity. Norms and values. It is not easy
To sway from the blue of the sky to where East meets west.
The Oriental girl with her matchstick legs gives me
My cookie to appease some sinful nature that I have
Forgotten even exists. I am the scapegoat, the lamb, the
Unmarried woman, the insomniac, the nurse, the confidante,
The keeper of secrets. I answer the telephone. Wait until
It rings three times before I pick up waiting to hear
His voice but you see it is complicated. Great men are
Often complex. Relationships with great men are often
Complicated. How I long for the sea’s body to cover my
Own. The weight of water. It is fire. How it burns. How
It sates my skin. It goes down like a single malt whisky.
I am in Ward 7 again. Tara. Walls closing in. Evaporating.
Becoming fainter and fainter. Fading away. Bars at the
Window. People indifferent to me. Nurses aloof. Angelic
Creatures who are in possession of night medication.
I take those pharmaceuticals. I drown in them. An empty
Vessel or royalty. I fly home. Onwards towards the light.
Sweet Jesus. A cave of flesh. The birthday girl with her
Twenty-one candles. The pastor strums his guitar. We all
Sing hymns. Later we eat cake like there is no tomorrow.
Later he plays the piano. Much later, years I turn thirty.
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