A hand fits inside a sleeve which becomes a wrapper over skin. Over time, the bones loosen; when they rub against each other again, they make rain.  How many times a day should one cry? The mouth’s obsessive grinding and mastication. The ear’s tendency to collaborate with earth’s gravity. I climb up a ladder to change all the broken lightbulbs: every single one has a bent and darkened filament. Nights, I’m seized with a desperate desire to know what we call the outcome of anything. From the bathroom at 3 AM, the sound of water filling the tank then stopping. A fan whirring. I always think of such things as part of the hive’s machinery, the house’s humming. I know where all the light pulls are. I snip lavender and rosemary and tie them in little sprigs. Where they lie in drawer depths, the lingering smell of death is lighter. A cloud, I decide. Or one of the feathers from a peacock, its golden eye and emerald somehow tamer. A chicken pecks in the dirt, forever looking for the ring that would have wed her to the eagle had she not lost it in her carelessness.  Shadows in the shape of wings move across patio tile.  An outstretched hand has the same meaning in any language; or an empty bowl, a broken sandal.


In response to Via Negativa: Uses.


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