word

In the Sultan Dynasty, it was told that the hands of thief were cut off, publicly, in the midst of their vast bazaars. Yes, they were examples, as we all are. Now there is the steady rhythm, like that of a clock, ticking inexorably. Flesh ages. Flesh peels: flower petals.

The girl went to school, and she went to school, and she went to school. Belonging and plight. Emptiness of words. She thought to her past, to some vague notion of childhood, an attempt to impose meaning upon the space before her. I am here, and I love my child, Iris. She thought to herself. There is a child, who I love, and I am a mother. I have to care for her, and protect her, and love her. And I love her. And she saw her child again, Iris, who played in the grass. And Confusion and Desire and Vanity and Immortality. What is it? She asked Iris, who came to her.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

And she cooked, and knife cut through bread, and the meal was prepared, and Iris ate, until she was filled.

“It’s time for a nap now,” said the child’s mother. Ok, responded Iris. The mother laid Iris to rest, and went back to the veranda. There was the vast, green, empty expanse. Worms, soil, roots, and flesh. There was green, and green, and green, and green. Yes, indeed there is a lot of greenery, she thought, the weight one again lying over her. She closed her eyes and frowned hard, thinking back to school, and work, and love. She opened her eyes and stared at her hands.

Jaime will soon be home. He used to speak of death and violence before. Yes, we used to speak of these things.

Angels and animals descended in a great pageantry; and the woman, whose name was Jia, was happy. They danced, and they threw a feast, where a great assortment of food was collected. There were wild berries, fresh pomegranates, and a great many cattle were prepared. There was iris, who played with other children, happy. It so happened that after the feast the attendees fell to slaying one another. Jia and Iris sat there, blood soaked, the spectacle fresh in mind.

Cigarettes were smoked. I would not smoke, I had said, thought Jia. It had been a year. Lungs were filled, and her head was light. And everything felt wretched, as if words too conspired against her. As if her similes and metaphors too rejected her. As if her tears too rejected her, laughed at her. Invalidation and the lost capacity for grief. I am familiar with this. Now I feel comfortable. Now I feel at home.

This is the loss of dignity, like a dog. I can only hope that it is temporary. Is it not Rilke who said that we are limited, that gods often press down harder upon us, and leave us disfigured? Now it is just an incorporeality as if a small wound, and I feel much too tired to raise my voice, so I would rather lay down, and sleep.

I would rather lay down, and sleep, and pray that language

Will one day again be heard.