Night Without

Night went on without           

end (Little seeped out                        

of that room besides our        

breath and candlelight. A touch         

beyond our pleading

voices. Oh god, we

began. Sound narrowed to

vowels like the wind raps the

windowpanes whistling

while it worked its way.

I took the Braille of

your body as my mother-

less tongue. I made sounds

like Low German. Fire

sermon on the mountain.)

and then with one. (You left for

reasons unknown to

you and God. Once the

Irish-inflected mews

of cows folded part of my

name in your ear. You

walked among seaweed

and seagulls only to

see lakeshore. Air loaded with

the stench of dying

and dead. You listened

to the wish of the waves

to be heard.) The night went on

without end (I dreamt

of confined space, a

coffin maybe, only

to wake and find myself sprawled

across the bed. You

used to complain I

ate space. Every time you

moved away I rolled closer

leaving white linen

in my wake, vacant

as a snowfield. No, there

were flowers on cotton sheets,

red but more modest

than roses, milestones

for the eyes to catch, to

measure the distance out. You

have taken back space

with interest, stretched

it to blank so even

I disappear from the land-

scape.) and then with one.

(Clocks were set against

us. Day broke, bankrupt, brought

only hints of morning, blue

and lunar through the

curtains. Air on my

skin, on my lungs, like wet

tissue paper. The sheets made

love in our absence.

You wore the habit

of being like a nun.

As if the closing of life

was as easy as

the closing of our

eyes.) The night went on and

found me wanting, without, end. 

Originally published in Copper Nickel, Issue 13 — Winter 2010