A small hammer hits some where at the heart of things. An obese fist squeezes juice from the gristle lump. The quivering trumpet muffler announces the catastrophe, as the still-life fruit gallery opens it'’s contrite doors; a cameras eye follows my side step. I can'’t breath. I can‚'t move. I'm buried like a beach toy. Stewing in my own broth. Trapped in my own narrative. We will scrape the waxy fuzz from your shiny apple world.
Dear Elizabeth,
I feel you have unhooked the silence between us,
have demanded what might be a miracle. That day at the hospital I could
detect in your voice, at the end of your prolonged sentences; that you were
fighting your own irritating goliaths. The ammunition was prised out of the
pleats of memory. I can't tell you who to take aim at, it's hard to know what's
right and wrong anymore.
I tried to listen to your pain. Across the hall I could hear the spasms of congealed
sound, a commotion of stereos, a reception of cluttered fragments. I dwelt on just a
few of your words, the signals of your body and eyes. You spoke some more of your
pain. I was left behind, always trying to catch up. I heard the library paper rustle. I
heard the sigh of a snow boot. In your kitchen I heard the oil that lubricates the potatoes
creaking, hiss and spit in the saucepan. But I couldn't hear your pain.
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