No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever loved me, maybe my parents did, I haven’t seen them in years, they kicked me out when I was in high school, they said they couldn’t deal with me anymore, I felt like I wasn’t finished dealing with them. I miss them sometimes, especially my father, he died a few years ago. I can’t call my mother, she won’t answer, neither will my sister.
The important question is the layout of the palace. I have no training and go about it all wrong, façade first. The thousands of curved balconies, arched windows – how to avoid cyclopean boredom?
They dream too of his multitude of shoes for all terrains – bar the one he has to tread – and wishful readings of his mauled life take on one of their own, being young and hopeful and having futures.
Between two high notes The melody gives a crack Long enough To allow my entire selfhood to enter Like a fish jumping back Into the night water
Those who love the country of books and the provinces of language, as Javier Marais clearly does, will love this book.
I cherish our easy relationship, but I could never keep it going if I lost my job. Sadness squeezes around me like shrink-wrap. I can’t imagine a situation in which my husband would happily let me go off to meet my friend for drinks or dinner in the evening.