Page 87 - Iterations:Other/Is

I ask my brother about Genesis, when we lived by the Taunton, still toxic with the countries #rst motions towards industry, I ask my brother about nothing and we tie strings in hexagrams, dodecahedrons around the lawn of a town named after someone English, I gather myself in two’s and wait under the evergreen bushes for the tormenter of our sister to be caught; we are spiders and have never watched as intently under the sun.
—
this moonlit knight later rejected under the red cups; an old man drowned, his crimes made bounty for noon for no one. this moonlit captive is an echo of us in the basement green where many souls made motion to take us into the mortar
I ask my sister {as I write these hopeless digital wellsprings into the fulcrum of night I think of how there will be no other for} I ask my sister for language now; she being the one closest to the sun, overhead our heads loll in the sand and no one listens to us when the something comes into our life; she can pick me up into her arms and bring me in from the sea, even as the silt sucks us into the brackish water,
-
my head makes quick work of the #rst oyster seen at the big rock in decades; a short space of time, between near death and legs splayed under sun outlined in gull shit, the taste of bivalve and brine is the only line left; it #res endlessly — midnight till two — a string of spit working from tonsil to esophagus in Mobius strips left round our street corner with bubblegum on the edge of Lizzie Borden’s Axe still wet with membrane or memory or my mother screaming out the window towards thief
——
whatever precipice this makes I welcome it. I #nd myself ready for an edge which pierces the soft space of my neck and does not recede, that makes home in the vein and becomes entangled in the jungle it allows to wisen upon a self-proclaimed dawn;
that is the destination, the roots within emptied a reclamation of the word sin