At random times, a memory

comes as if from out of nowhere: in church,
between epistle and homily, the hand that snakes
through darkness to fondle her breast in the crowded
cinema. Or in the office, listening to the flush
of a commode echoing in the hallway— A waterfall
that bathes the edge of the delivery table with blood
and fluid; and sometimes in the dim light of early mornings,
that gelled sheet tinted ruby which issued from between
her legs to draw on the tiled bathroom floor
the outlines of a map, country with no name.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Searchers.

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