Twenty Years
I remember it
as something I did
to make the body lighter.
I wrote, then burned.
I placed what remained on my tongue,
kept it there
until it dissolved.
There was a way
to stand in the sun,
eyes almost closed,
so that hidden forms appeared,
drifting slowly,
as if they belonged to another body.
I chose one.
I followed it.
I held it still.
After that
it did not leave.
There is now a line inside me,
drawn from the head to the hip.
It does not loosen.
It does not speak.
I think of the years
spent touching the inside of the eyes,
as if there were an entrance there,
as if something might open.
Twenty years.
I continue to return
in the same posture,
exposing the softest part.
But there is also
another movement inside:
to close the hand,
to bring something to the mouth,
to break it,
to disappear with it.
I say I tried.
The body keeps its own record:
nails lengthen,
neck reddens,
skin stays damp.
One tooth
cracked.
Cover image: Image courtesy of Oliver Andrew Evans. © Oliver Andrew Evans