“When a woman gets in trouble, everybody throw her down.” — Robert Johnson
“It’s about a woman in trouble.” — David Lynch
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Tumbling, stuttering, a guttural stammering. Coyote in the dark hills yammering. These are the finish lines we contrive when we are cruel. When we dam the staggered voices of the anguished.
“Somebody died here tonight. A terrible killing. Let me clean the ground.”
(Shirley and Jamie carved in a tree,
M-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes dread, then comes malice,
Then comes the fruit of the poison chalice.)
“No time. Let it pass.”
Hot liquid days. Blessings, our daemon English hearts ablaze.
Death in the bike lanes. Death in the bay. A kindness, unacknowledged.
You’ve seen her tight to her shadow, pulled in like shellfish, fussed over and fingered by the matriarch. Don’t assume that’s all she is. Don’t. Oh, she waits. Bides her time. But take a breath or two, sit tight, hang fire, her killing time is coming.
“I need to do this.”
“Two people die every second. Give it up.”
How is it you stumble on trouble every day? You are a slavering bat with your sonar tuned to strife.
You’re in the West End, the water beyond the palms placid as a cataract. Driftwood logs punctuate the beach. In daylight everything is green; at night we’re all cetacean. You ask a gull why pain exists. A shadow transits the sun, your momentary skin a-flinch, volatile like waves. The gull only laughs, glimpsing and rebutting its own ephemeral ghost.
It’s a single second plucked from all the generous seconds offered us.
Are we to be returned to the manufacturer? Is this our fate as hosts?
The man in your house is wrong and strange. The quieting of night makes you wait.
He spreads all his tools and his face won’t ever change.
Why are the times you least feel like talking always the ones you need to most?
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Image © Viktor Jakovlev