At the center of the world there is a statue of a girl. She is standing near a well with a bucket
bare and dry. I went and looked her in the eyes and she turned me into sand. This clumsy form
that I despise scattered easy in her hand. And it came to rest upon a beach, with a million others
there. We sat and waited for the sea to stretch out so that we could disappear into the
endlessness of blue, into the horror of the truth. We are far less than we knew. Yes, we are far
less than we knew but we knew what we could taste. Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves. Saying that we will need something to remind us of all the
sweetness that has passed through us (fresh sangria and lemon tea). The priests dressed
children for a choir (white-robed small voices praise Him) but found no joy in what was sung. The
funeral had begun in the middle of the day when you drive home to your place from that job that
makes you sleep back to the thoughts that keep you awake long after night has come to claim
any light that still remains in the corner of the frame that you put around her face. Two pills just
weren?t? enough. The alarm clock is going off but you are not waking up. This isn?t happening. It
is.
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