Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them;
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
My birthmark is invisible, like all the books piled up in every corner
of my memory. I simply lack the sturdy biography, steeped in dramatic
paradoxes, that has served so many so well. And I guess there really is
no point in apologising for my occasional outbursts of mauvaise conduite.
After all, there is always room for one more Shakespeare’s little sister.
Imagine getting old together. One day, we looked after each other,
had red borscht with dumplings for dinner, and then a wee moment
on the sofa to settle our stomachs before the evening walk. Maybe
we swapped books or just shared a particularly compelling passage.
Perhaps there was a wedding invitation, but more likely a funeral.
A real genre scene. Imagine that. And there were times I thought
we could actually make it. If only we had never met.
I never realised that the extra pixels of high definition
could make such a big difference. Call me sentimental,
but I kind of liked the bleary picture of my shabby telly.
But one day, it finally died, and I had to buy a new one.
Only then did I start to notice details I was unaware of,
like that tear changing the meaning of what followed
the one time we recorded our bed at dusk.
And so we, earthlings, made our first attempt at playing
celestial billiards. I’m really glad that we decided to make
this effort to save ourselves from the fate of the dinosaurs.
After all, why would we leave it to blind chance and a rock
when we are pretty good at self-destruction?
Being an open book exposes you to marginalia scribblers,
and you never know what you will get: a gloss in Korean
or a casual critique; an early attempt at ornate drolleries;
or perhaps family jewels sketched with a teenage hand.
And if you think this will not happen to you, remember,
the cleanest books are the ones no one has ever touched.
We are strangers who happen to have children together. You’ve made it clear.
And I’m not objecting to that, as we never really got past the flatmates stage,
regardless of the official piece of jewellery, so why pretend to be friends now
that it’s all over? And while I still have problems naming colours sometimes,
I’ve learned not to worry too much about it. It’s not like solitude gives a hoot
if my shirt matches my trousers.
Lying dormant for years, my fountain pen has lost
its ability to inspire me to transcend all the rubicons
of corporeality. I used to believe that, once baptised
with iron gall ink, I would never experience original
sin stepping on my toes, but hardly being able to read
lips, I left that silent abbey to become yet another great
amateur of finely encased writing implements.
As worn out as a shellac record
and just as brittle, I’ve got my mug shot
stamped in a book of wraiths.
If only I could sound my full voice,
even once, as if the spear-tip horn
of the majestic Victor V lent me
the alluring oddity of the tone,
I might regret nothing.
I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine, I promise. It’s just that I can no longer remember
what it’s like to gently brush my fingers over that brief moment of silence
in anticipation, which, like any attempt to hold on to a long bygone present,
fades eventually. So I guess I finally have to adjust to all the possible futures,
each with its own way of making me feel like a fool, because only a fool
could possibly avoid the time leaking all over the bed.
hidden pilcrow 