Monday, April 18, 2011

The End Set: ii/III

When we entered the bedroom, we found a winged (but unmiraculous) intruder there on the floor. It had flown through a windowpane. A bloody wingspan patterned the walls. Its red, wet feathers left pleated, folding lines on the bedclothes.

Anna thought its poor pigeon insides were translucent and pink like pomegranate seeds. I indulged in a little haruspicy and I can tell you that it was so beautiful to see my future in his entrails, so beautiful to see his tiny sacred heart.

Once in Paris, for a treasured summer evening, I watched you watching a pigeon there in our bedroom. I stayed at the door. Between myself, you and the pigeon, I watched as, for you, that pigeon divided. A moment of panic separation outstayed and endured: this pigeon became two and one of those became a dove pigeon and then just a dove. For a while both were as much pigeon as pigeon. Then one was at once the pigeon and at once the dove. Then just a pigeon. Then just a dove.

Now I am still longing to be separate as if for a panic moment, for the next, lost moment watching you watching yourself and the strange beauty of your ability to multiply and divide your folding, pleating pigeons. A heartjar. You hold them still. I only hold the old panic in my gloved fingertips. That’s all I do.

As we moved out, our landlord said, quite how on earth did you get red wine all over the walls, nearly to the ceiling. But what she took for wine was really blood and she watched us as we lent for the marks traced along the paint just beyond our reach.