you, the unstrung cello, with your factory
hands and your crazy pale hair, what do you think you're doing? knives for the kitchen and
kisses for the bedroom. you're supposed to be a healer. what else did you think would be
no physician heals himself
you, the bad actor, you live in a sea of
mirrors, you're running through streets paved with faces cut from friends and family,
you're always lost in someone else's labyrinth. you told yourself you were a chain on an angel but did you really think about it? your storm-smashed glass, your excuses to be
angry. you, the maker of the sea. smiling shining everlasting if only it could always be
like furrows for planting seeds, red lines on
your forearm. you, the unimportance of damage. so what does it mean when you stand in the
empty white kitchen imagining yourself torn to pieces by knives. something is calling you:
let me go. you said it was the closest thing to
your dreams of flying, weaving through the rushhour animals with a mind like a razor, a
razor through meat. let me go past the ring of hills into the psychic woodlands where dead
pine needles crunched under the soles of my shoes in the silence of sleeping shadows. let
me climb out of the gravity well and swim in your space hotel, in a distant constellation
that's dying in the corner of the sky.
you, the imaginary one. you met your twin and
he told you the truth. he loved you and gave you the truth. where were you when the sky
froze and the neverending mirrors toppled into the darkness of the sea, when the girl with
no face danced the other universe open, when the star maker was visible in the eyes of every living thing, where were you when the fox screamed in the early morning through the
fine mist of the woods, where was your heart when everyone else was given theirs.
island of the sun
you'd like to be marked. you'd like to be
special. you'd like to be noticed. you'd like to tear yourself apart. you'd like to
disappear. you, the one who was supposed to be loved and never hated, the gazer upon the face of the dark waters. Nero was an angler in the lake of darkness. we love for so many
different reasons. we are shaken through space and time until we are free.
you, the mercenary. a visionary in the pounding
aftermaths of your dreams, you're awake when you're invisible, forget what you think you
know. your blood solves nothing but when the door to the world of light closes stop you've
seen all this before stop you've pushed the demons back a million times stop what new thing could you have to say now? I broke myself, I lost myself, I wanted to eat the
tendrils of the sun, they were made of gold sugar
she told me I wouldn't ever die
would only love
black windows falling. cold metal on your arm
that you wish would bite deeper than you meant. oops - an accident. It's nothing.
something bloody to show for all the wars you're going through. scars from someone else's
battle. you, the healer. two homes high above the clouds, one a darkened pool of water that you fish in for tools, weapons, secrets. one a bright, quiet house, hidden between
two leafs of a book with infinite pages. the clawed hand from the sky, the thousand-fired
city catacombed through a mountainside. you, the hero, letting your friends pay the
restaurant bill while you stare at the new continent in the sky. so strange you never
noticed it before. I've been asleep all my life.
crestfallen, ashamed, guilty. you stare
at their faces full of love, at your own hands, twenty years older than you, the hands of
someone shocked into silence and oblivion by a dead baby, a dark-eyed girl.
never meant to
hurt. you. anyone.
dust and blood in spirals at the bottom of the broken staircase. the
dread ringing in your ears fading with the grateful, lying thought, this is a dream as you
give up the struggle and slip under the waves with your dark sister. sometimes it's true.
if it's false, you lose everything, and start again with empty hands and a little more
confusion. isn't it better for everything to be real than unreal?
your little comforts. the blue sky at the top
of the mesa, the gravestones they turned into pavings for a park, dead acorns painted gold
and hung on a string for Christmas. you, turning death into life. I thought it would be
fearful, I thought it would be horror but you never saw the demon child in the mirror.
life into death and death into life, the skeleton dancing in the valley of skulls and
snowdrops. baby heads pushing out of the frozen soil of the suburban parks, the arcs of
the suspension bridge lurking in the fog, bubbles and frogspawn collecting in the corners
of the shattered cesspool. you, the witness, the waitress, witless and weightless, desperate for understanding. you, the
mariner. you, the firm grip, the knife, the cut, and the end of the cut. you, the one who
isn't harmed. you, the map and the territory, the hand and the glove. you, the spiral flower.
offerings in the morning darkness to the empty
chair, crying for a mother who never existed. you held her out of the bathwater until her
death turned to life again. later by the wild shore raindrops closed your eyes, shouts
from the hillside from friends hidden in the ferns and grass, hunting lemons and papaya
for when the beach is set on fire. we'll set it on fire. we'll offer it up if you want.
anything but what you're asking. you, the one who knows what the fire rituals mean, you,
who kissed the sand at the centre of the universe, you, the only other person who saw the
rainbow's end in the trees near the jetty, while the storm rains churned the sea and you
floated with no dreams left.
the dreams came back.
I am their playground,
writhing between pillars of lightning.
I, astronaut, caught in the birth of something that
howls with flame and darkness.
you, the one in the sun's heart.
you, the one who cut her own strings and mine.
this is my mind.
this is my gift and what it costs.
to build bridges across a shifting sea, to link the cold cores of stars.
this is the other
world you wished for.
I don't know how I didn't die.