Maybe my arms lifted as a woman lowers a dress over my head.
This is not what I want to tell you.
Looking at red flowers on her mother’s dress as she sat on her lap on a train is Woolf’s first memory.
Then the sound of waves behind a yellow shade, of being alive as ecstasy.
Maybe her mind, as I read, lowering over my mind.
Maybe looking down, as I sit on the floor, at the book inside the diamond of my legs.
Even briefly, to love with someone else’s mind.
Moving my lips as I read the waves breaking, one, two, one, two, and sending a splash of water over the beach.
What I want to tell you is ecstasy.
Now my neighbor through the wall playing piano, I imagine, with her eyes closed.
When she stops playing, she disappears.
I am still waiting for the right words to explain myself to you.
When there was nothing left to smoke, I drew on my lips with a pen until they were black.
Or is this what it means to be empty: to make no sound?
I pressed my mouth to the wall until I’d made a small gray ring.
Or maybe emptiness is a form of listening.
Maybe I am just listening.