You know what I mean: In the instant of waking in bliss, the whole body smiles— He's still alive—She came back—They didn't mean it— We forgive and are forgiven—It all turned out— And then the hand claws the duvet, seized by the real, as all that's warm just drops. I know you know. But I seek a potion to make me dream of the actual with the same fervor, so I'll wake to happy facts: It's spring! It's raining! Robins! Someone will return a phone call today! My son has watched the clock and let me nap for 35 minutes!— and does not notice my face smacked wet by the snap of the delusion, unmatched in sweetness, that you promised to hold me always.
The cloth edge of certainty has shredded down to this: God and love are real, but very far away. If I go to Istanbul, will I return? That is not one of the permitted questions. When I go to Istanbul, how will I bear to return? I could slip into the small streets to the high plain and the Caucasus— It's all alone, the returning, the going. The cloth, a soft holland whose blocks of blue and lemon once cheered me in a skirt, now dries dishes. God and love are very far away, farther even than the mountains in the east.