Dear Lina,
I came across your Appendice
last night
when I was looking
for a body
I could read at bedtime.
But to have you dying
in that way
on the other side of the
universe
fragments began to tear away.
I had imagined you
in that after-dying glow
not believing what you'd seen
nor what you'd heard
rising from ashes
to eat men like air.1
And laws?
They came and they went
on the breath of ghosts
visiting the city that had tempted
you
impotently
with wishes designed for mortals.
A single encounter
that's all it took
to become afflicted
by the nabrat2 in your voice.
I have been warned
about this vigilance
of capturing vibes I do not want
but nonetheless need
… desperately.
It might be said
that eternal patience can burn
on pyres not built for you
But why must gifts come undone
when you ask me to
sign away
a part of you
me?
Love,
Mireille
1. Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” Collected Poems (London: Faber & Faber, 1981), 244.
| ©Mireille Astore |