Oh what are you afraid of? That your heart will break of excess, that your own breath will crush you? and the light descend like phosphor or iron? Any woman knows the crest of emptiness, childbirth or orgasm, the catch of thinking your child will one day die, perhaps an old man alone and forgotten. I myself imagine the thud, crunch, whirl, and terrifying hurtle through shards of glass in an auto accident. The stillness of the gurney at the side of the road, your hands probing me, softening, moistening. Grow up, my darling, leave your fears behind. The grave, too, is a space for swimming, a small cove, a deep and narrow pool at an old hotel, the scratchy concrete softened by a carpet of greying moss. | |||
What I meant was when intimacy rises, I forget the world isn't given to us alone, others watch, and we do perform publicly, each voice writing its widening space. |
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