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 writing to you...]
I am writing to you as an act of ending.
Cutting faces out of paper and folding them in envelopes like thoughts.
Am I a monster, Clarice Lispector asked in The Hour of the Star, or is this what it means to be human?
To be alive, I think as I cut another face.
What makes the shape become visible, and breathe, is the angle and variation of absence.
Sugar skull, I whisper, what I have known all along.
I am you gone.