If ever there came a moment you wanted someone to tell you to stay, to unpack, to quash any lingering doubts, it is now. But of course these moments only happen in films, the earnest entreaties sputtered out over a sorrowful score. You anticipate his response in that dramatized scenario: “I don’t want that kind of power over anyone else.”
But in September, when all the tourists have left town, the beach at night exudes the shuddery, gut-strung pleasure of abandoned space.
Not that it’s entirely deserted. Down here we loiter with intent.
i know you would like that:
alien sand packed thick in my throat
or salt sucking the teeth out my mouth.
don’t matter, huh? you just want me undone,
any one of nature’s big legged rickshaw pullers
can get the glory of dragging my undersong through to silent finish.
I’m building a nest to give birth to nothing in.
I’m ripping fur from my chest like rabbits do.
I’m down with down. I’m your dream girl but only if you stay up all night thinking about other stuff.
Yet if there is a rip in the fabric of the universe, as some scientists speculate, a tear through which time and space can dissolve into nothing, it is also a gateway to the body of a woman who birthed all these planets looking like heads freed from their bodies.
She climbed the stairs. She found her ledge, that hiding spot. That safety. She sat down not knowing what to do next, but preparing for something. Considering. Brain space tangled up in the logic of if she should do this. She was no longer safe in her life, could no longer find that space of solace.
She walked up five flights to find it.
I am half the me I was before you. Crease my skin and apply steady pressure. My flimsy lungs will tear because you don’t know which flaps to fold and I can only take so much wear.