Wednesday, December 24, 2003

This is based on a true story.

The Book

It is no longer a secret -- the government has been notified.
It towers in stacks to the ceiling.
It fills the tub and slops over the edges.
It overlaps the stove-- embraces the sink.

In this story, I represent reason.
I arrive minus a pen.
The book parts like a sea, spins
me back to the bedroom,
to a small cot.
It covers the cot.
It darkens the windows,
like moths, plastered.

The author is unhappy with me.
I tell her the book must go.
The author is screaming.
Her eyes are unnecessarily large.

Lawyers are involved,
I tell her,
The neighbors hear words groaning
in the pause between brushing their teeth
and turning out the lights.
The hum of electricity no longer
soothes their dreams.

The author shrieks something beyond
the edge of hearing.

I tell her,
there is the possibility of fire,
of plague, of tiny bright insects.

The author grabs my hair.
I am prepared for this:
I brought shears.
When I am free, I make the call
and the undoing begins.