somnambulant pulses. i did not dream of you.
At first I took her as being exceedingly proper, but I soon realized that she was simply executing the language. She went word by word. Every letter had a border. I watched her wide full mouth sweep through her sentences like a figure touring a dark house, flipping on spots and banks of perfectly drawn light. The sensuality, in certain rigors.
contention contortion convention cabaret. the rapport lives on interest, borders dancing around the words. converse contort cavort ca… cadaver. sometimes my mother speaks to me from the future and i can feel the scalpel slicing me out of her womb, tongue delicious singing of praise–beauty in sharpness, sensuality in exactitude. i wonder if you read this still.
It was, she cried silently, enough to suffer as a woman, an individual, on one’s own account, without having to suffer for the race as well. It was a brutality, and undeserved. Surely, no other people so cursed as Ham’s dark children.
to miss amiss remiss miss chinatown san francisco. missed wave missed wave missed gait mist grate. she who wears the crown atop ivory skin: surely, no other people so cursed as ham’s dark children, by she. i have not eaten chips in two years. on my own account. to suffer for the race as well. we too possess scalloped cheek folded eye limber stomach and ache ache ache for upturned nose. turnip nose.
yesterday en route to yoga class i thought of a name for my dog. the dog that owns me. paid two grand to have me delivered, caesarian style, out my mother’s womb. two grand for a scalpel; dance to the death, in certain rigor. the dog that owns me named herself lourdes, but i thought: oh my. my. my. that will not do. the umbilical cord, my.
your dad is different, my mom says to me. i do not have the heart to tell her: the umbilical cord, my. the womb, your. my mother smacks her lips. i knew when i met him, that man is unhappy. how must we talk of addiction if not, unless, through pathology? the sick body, rested on the laurels of her chest. postpartum, happy. happy. happy. that will not do.
i think i am addicted: somnambulant sighs, the curve of the spine. aching ovaries. how can longing hurt so, if indeed it is happiness (my) toward which i turn. if indeed it is happiness (yours) toward which i fold. somnambulant sonatas are the only caves in which i can hide. might we dance, i ask you. teach me. my, the umbilical cord, father is different. box step, bontemp, three two one twirl and a one one one one one one one one one one. & fin, to fold body sick in motion, stick on floor. what is she doing now? the sagittarius moon taught me how to waltz, and midstep we let go of that which weighed us down. the sick body, in flight–
som som som somersault soar soon. the hiss of the air ne’er lose you, forlorn. look to the right, and look to the left–
what is left? pass, lass, you are of use to me no more.