Hitting Like a Memory

"The chipped gilded mirror, razor blade tucked behind it, a still-familiar weight in her lap...she bent toward the mirror, the first line hitting like a warm memory. Right, she said out loud. Right. The second settled where the first had gone, in her shoulders, and the back of her neck, below the skull in a soothing, flooding surge through her chest and arms in the muscles of her face which she hadn't realized were clenched until they yielded as the world pulled back, softening, her breathing from far off and from close by, in some obscure cadence with the shimmering light outside, and sounds -- water? birds -- lifting from the street...The third line she didn't remember doing, so she did the fourth, and now where she was there were no ghosts, no questions without answers, head swaying deliciously on a bolster of light, empty, empty, mouth in joy and forgetfulness dropped open, the face in the mirror smiling tenderly, and all she had to do was let go and tumble, any minute now she would. Let go. Fall."

image by me / text by Ehud Havazelet in Bearing the Body

1 comment:

paul said...

my old window