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 [In the museum of sadness...]
In the museum of sadness, in the museum of light—
I would climb so carefully inside the glass coffin and lower the lid.
Do you think the saying is true: when someone dies, a library burns down?
Maybe just a sentence, scratched slowly on the lid, Say what you mean.