It is not so uncommon these days sitting on the balcony eyes darting from the cup on the table to the woven patterns on the wall, the floorboards and the straight lines from these to the corner to the wooden sticks behind the beams of the roof, while my mind wrestles with fluttering wings of moth, leaving a powdery trail of silver and a bit of gold, and when the moth has gone I am left with fruit that feels heavily of a familiar sadness that comes and goes, from here to there, to somewhere across the garden, perhaps in the woods where a pig goes rooting, and that distance from here to there, from sadness to a brisk walk, from desperation to a warm shower, is such a long tiring walk, an exhaustion without a lot of effort, a frailness of heart, the darting, dance, frenzy of eyes beneath lids half-closing, closing, half-closing, half-opening, opening, as the coming begins to frighten me somewhat, making the knives in the kitchen peculiarly inviting, they are sharp and will cut me without bleeding for some time, the mildness of the pain quite deceiving of the depth of the grief, and yet truly how insignificant the purveyors of my madness, not quite the molestation of my body, the clap of one hand against this broken face, the burning of my guts from hunger, no not quite such customary abuses, but really, simply, a drop of water, a little nudge, a light push, a word, a joke, really, every second, every minute, every moment of my life, subjected to the vacuous lack,absence of a luscious kiss, a caress, a fuck of a certain sort, of a certain feel, soft, gentle, firm, that which makes me see with the touch the shape of my body, where I could find the center of my lust, and thus letting me see likewise the shape of the body of my companion, the center of his lust, the wholeness of his touch and presence, the … ha! what is it, I know nothing of, I have none of but just drops of water, a nudge here and there, numerous little talks of intellection without blood, without heat, a truly capacious nothingness, an object that stifles, takes up space and yet where, whence is he? am I? well, to learn to ignore the clang of knives in the kitchen, to sit quietly when the wings flutter, and to be not afraid of the comings and goings, the pilgrimage to nowhere, the dream of a pig in the woods, to continue to suffer in the hope that you you you will find me, that you you you will break your silence and will know as you you you see me, so that the day will finally come for my release unto everlasting peace.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, August 9, 2014