You left a souvenir, a memento, impressed on my
skin, on time’s trembling trace ingressing, a transition, a threshold, between
here and there, now and then, in this middle of between that comes upon me mid-night. No, not
at midnight. The midnight is a calculated point of chronological time,
scientifically measured to absurd perfection. But mid-night, sometime over the
duration when darkness wears me like a silly trinket and moon brings his gifts,
mid-night could be anytime between now and then, depending how one feels the
dark, what rhythms carry the body through this dreamy threshold.
The night, night herself, cradles my sleep, my
gestation, my benevolent slumber, a time when the body remembers. Night becomes
a fertile region of gentle swelling of timid, restful acquiescence to Earth’s
gravity, veiled in gossamer shadows that deepen the texture of something
unfurling, a soporific interlude, when the desire is always for the potential,
even if not probable, contact.
The night summons the palpable, the manifest,
words address me, undress me in my sleep, remove satin and silk, unknot the
liveried corset’s breathless grip, dismantle the banal accoutrements of daily
appearances, disrobe the frilly frock of obedience and cradle me bare,
unprotected, trembling. And a strange calmness comes over me mid-night, I wear
the darkest dress of eyelids shut, the silvery slippers that the moon so
perplexly stitched upon my feet. This is the time of deepest depth, of the
widest crevasse between two lips of the same gorge.
The time passing.
I am a woman writing within the threshold of the
moment, imperceivable by the naked eye (when was it clothed? What was it
wearing? Was it cross-dressing? In between a dress and a pair of jeans, did it
catch itself naked, seeing with its whole self the time passing?). In the
bereft twilight I loose myself before being abandoned. I surrender to the
swelling membrane between now and the ambiguous, mid-night.
The supple unknown.
I
cannot be certain of the direction until it occurs. It occurs to me sustained,
sparsely. And I let my thoughts run away with words, silent escape, as if
approaching the end of a storm, to catch a last gust of wind upon which to sail
with buccaneers, drunken philistines, abominable academics. A supple clearing, a chance opening, veils part, I’m making way, I stand clear, I swell, joining, not enclosed, but cleaving, as my bones (those stubborn vertical articulators), as my bones wish, as they wish, as they happen to dance, on a moonlit night.
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