Before fading, light paints the sky the shade of a ripe papaya, the swollen hip of a mango. Who will help me peel away their shawls so I can pluck the seeds out of their flesh? The wind whips my hair into a basket of twigs. My bones don’t fold as easily as they used to, but my mind is still my sharpest knife. What voice are you using today, asks one of my daughters; is it the one with the blade, the one with the wing, or the one that sings to the roses? There are many more lights to dapple the afternoons between those scores: sandpaper pink, steely grey, white coral. I want to know how to fashion a bridge that fixes one continent to another, a garment that velvets widows begging for alms on the streets. But I am not a falcon cast off from the gauntlet, plummeting down without error to bind to its quarry. I am not even a dove on the balcony of heaven. With every climb, the bells around my ankles ring their green warnings. The sea plays overture upon overture of scales. None of this means I have no love for you. None of this delivers us from our sorrows, from the flock of our migratory desires.
In response to Via Negativa: Sublimation.