The night is a constant rush of crashing waves the wind whistling with the perpetual undulation, the whisper. Late and long into it, I float on the cold surface of stars and moonlight. A billion light years between each spark. Underneath, there is nothing, just this thing shallow and hot and gnawing, like a prescient ember. Where will this hunger be satiated. Day is night is day is night is day……
I curse the tangled warp, and wad it up and throw it, it is my own hand that cuts and rends. The little boy blue and grey mist and my back, and the hook and the heddle and my neck, and the loom at rest on my legs, as I run my shuttle left and pinch and beat and right and pinch and beat, surprised when the shed is too narrow again. I feel like an egg cracked open and all my dark is spilling out. Dark, and sunlight, stars and reflections, shadows and oil slicks and raindrops, just a heartbeat and wind in the trees, they whisper stories of a childhood, tears of the ocean, and only there in the middle is me, like a pearl in crane mountain pond, who would look for one there? Shuttle, pinch, beat, shuttle, pinch, beat.
I am lost in the polished creaking wood rooms of someone else’s house, the lace curtains and lead windows, the velvet fainting couches and the hand crank laundry, the pocket doors and heavy curtains, the gas lamps flickering and hissing, the shadows. Rambling up the back stairs and in and out of the dusty library and pretending to take my tea in the parlor and eating at the counter. Feet bare on stone floors as sunlight tries to warm this perpetually chill place, up the backstairs down the front stairs up the back stairs again.
Me like a wooden doll with cracked composite coating and a now silent voice and the stained and naked muslin of my skin, I chew on my broken finger tips and peel the flakes from my wooden hair. I peer inside the open mouth and see only darkness. Sometimes if I fling it just right it will say it ever so softly. I sit up and my eyes are open I lie down and they are closed, I sit up, I lie down, I stick my finger in to hold them open and they snap shut as soon as I pull away, I sit up I open them.
I am a sepia toned photograph; I am the ball that is never thrown, the stocking that is always about to bunch around the ankle, the foot that will never outgrow it’s shoe, the shoe that will never show wear. Hopelessly out of fashion, I am old black paper faded to brown. I am the aperture of the camera, opening and forever holding still long after it closes again.
I am the chained and snarling army dog. I lunge and snap. I retreat to the soothing meadow and gurgling stream. I am dizzy and turning and turning and turning.
I love and do not love and love and do not love and love………