By | 1 June 2022
Elizabeth Bishop I want to be evocative. Dawn arrives like a dropped egg. Slumped over a desk, mouths small. Heaviness in our matching breasts. Kidding, yours are smaller, Elizabeth. I hate you for that.

Before killing the blue whale, orcas swim inside the mouth to eat the huge tongue. Muscle frayed, fresh meat torn to smoke. The scale of such flavour I can-not grasp. I’d guess shiny metal, ox, a thousand blended fish.

If you died I’d eat your tongue. I’d expect you to do the same. (Love doesn’t need metaphors, it needs nutrition!) The sea has its own logic: when a baby lobster is ready to leave the nursery, she straightens her claws. Better to be already in flight.

The problem with excess is I overthink it. Elizabeth you died first, so that tongue should have been for me.

I’ve been working on myself, can’t you tell? Back and forth across the ages, pages. We don’t want desire, do we? We want time. (Impossible!!!)

My God, Elizabeth, you wrote so much about nature! How? Forget about the tongue and just watch the water?

Agreed: bodies of the sea are impeccable. But I don’t pretend to have anything in common with nature. Everything alive is only an anecdote, ready for future use.

The baby lobster propels into the horizon: one large sheet of overhead light.


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