I open the window and let the cool enter. Wind becomes a pool of locusts. I would stand there, would let my face swell by its cold, then call for my own name twice.
Nothing answers.
Every time summer arrives, it goes. It goes like a broken bulb. The locusts are alive. The locusts are lurking in the season. All around the sounds of their scissoring. The faucet is broken, I think. The room listens to its dripping.
Outside the night ambers down, I realise I want to go home.
Vein-blue. Flashes of trains carve themselves against quiet, I listen and rest my head on the table, arms laid under. That faint light of myself, the body deflects like a blade. I want to go and rub my face against the metal-rusted sky. Midnight howling of the neighbour’s dogs.
Look at them, my mother said one time about those pit bulls, chopping her two-weeks-old refrigerated onions, I sometimes feel like they’re pretending to do this dog-screeching thing but perhaps, no—I guess what I mean is—can you pretend to be who you’re supposed to be—and then, funny enough—you’re not? I guess no, yeah? I mean—
Pretentiously.
I mean, to even say the word ‘selflessness’, you are murdering language. There is a literary thing for it, after all.
God, the anti-image is such an itch—I want to build my body so it brims to the edge. So it loses itself.
– anyway, dinner is nearly ready. I sat myself down, the table became a flatland. My heart throbbed itself into a caged bird.
