Mary and I
It is to that other one, to Mary, that happens to things. California walks through me never ceasing its currents, one did say, electric, to ignite laughter in my gaze and its inner door; of Mary I receive news and olds in binaries and I see her name in doctrine we used to believe relevant to our biographies. I like the way food works like wine on my tongue, the warmth of winter, large light rooms, textures of papers, textures of poems, and the mysteries of motions; the other shares these preferences, but would never name them. It would not be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is familial; Mary lives, Mary lets myself live so that I may sculpt mirrors into ladders, and my literature justifies me, and my relationships justify me. It poses great simplicity for me to admit that she has put me together, she has saved others perhaps because I never could say what was good, or because I always could say what was good and I belong to everyone. In every case she is destined to lose all that I am, distinctively, and she sews herself through me with dropped stitches, with well worn accuracy.
Un-applied philosophy bores me like calculus; I do not wish to be anything eternally. I will endure in I not in Mary who is other, but reflections of echoed words paint themselves on mirrors without me knowing and I wake to find us enduring. Music is an attractive temporary.
I and Mary don't understand the vortex of abstractions in freedom, most families don't. We do understand infinity. In this way, my life is running away and I lose everything and everything is turned over to oblivion, or to the other.
I know I am writing this piece.
No comments:
Post a Comment