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This is the second
time I have seen an albino greyhound sleeping beside me. And
for some reason, none of this scares me. I am the word “lambent.” I
do not cry in front of him, nor do I yell. I am completely stable.
Not stable really but calm.
This strength or perfection frightens me.
Often I throw up at work, leaning over the toilet thinking of
all my co-workers genitals. Sometimes I simply close my eyes and
pretend there is really nothing to any of this. Or I am conscious
of how I am already putting it all together, giving it a place.
Perhaps moving on, unsure of my perfection, then brilliant. Willing
my life over to whatever life is willing me, moving me towards
the table, towards the bed, towards the hand that is his. Or the
space of the hand that is his, which is no longer his.
I have never felt so dazzlingly sad. As if, for the sake of all
people, I am a light on a stretcher. That there is health in sickness
or bread on top of my refrigerator, I am sure. Still, I can not
possibly deserve this fatal healing or sandwiches or something
else.
That there are still “gravities” or “voices” or “radishes.” This
seems entirely perfect or broken. We remove the light socket from
the light, and it is still lit.
He is beautiful and delicately folded into the shape of a sleeping
dog. His limbs are made of bone, I think. He is so fragile and
white. And again, I have allowed my generosity to overcome me.
I am almost waking, and he has given himself up to sleep despite
his guard. I am raising myself to my elbow slowly so as not to
startle him, leaning over to touch him, with hands that feel like
tiny girl hands. His body seems to grow long, white stem from the
bed, his torso like a sideways iris. He looks at me. And he has
never been so young and so sad. Then he arches into the air and
fades there in that arc.
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