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.
from Please Bury Me in This [I am not any closer...]
I am not any closer to saying what I mean.
Love has made itself so quiet, a few red fish moving in slow circles.
I want to say like blood, like forgiveness, this obedience, looking at the ground on my knees.
I mean to cease to feel, to cancel, to give up all claim to—
At some point, I rested my hands over my eyes and mouthed, This is my face housed underwater.
This is a love letter.
Every word but mouthed erased.