Hopeless
Wednesday Prose Poem: speaking of Carter
She was like a piano in a country where everybody has had their hands cut off — Angela Carter, “Black Venus”
Unapproachable — or I’m not making any headway —
against the vast white tub where you rest — where you escape the torment of my incoming wave — in the bath where I tried to lie beneath you holding off the shore that came to cover us —
to play the flute — long broken — with tree branches for fingers —an excuse for not moving, just growing here —
but not in any place — waiting for the pearl of my own to open up and vomit sanctuary and doing — where the quills left by the ravens offer up words to go inside your ear and change —
this from…hopeless?
waiting — at hand, in the anxiety of my own breathing comes the false sound of the telephone that isn’t making any noise at all — here’s a desire you didn’t leave behind but saw at the counter and decided not to buy —
so without any hands — the feet do some sort of dance but no one sees it for that — and recognition was supposed to be the lifeboat — come for the sailor stuck without a wind —
but waiting — in any case divorced from the dream — standing alone naked and shouting but without the right words—
