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All characters and voices in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons (and voices) living or dead is purely coincidental.
EVENT AGAINST EVENTUALITY (a drama of voices) by Salahuddin Hariri © All rights reserved by the author
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."(NIETZSCHE)
"He's always been like that. His childishness
And boyish tendencies remained intact,
Defying all the saddening laws of change.
All his potentials in the cradle lulled
Themselves to sleep – their sleep their anchorage.
When we were married I could see the point:
The jealousies, absurd suspicions, all
That could evoke in man madness and rage.
But he, the swelling egotistical,
Could never see the child, and so the child
Insisted that I treat him as a man,
A man whose presence should excite my heart
To ecstasy, my limbs to nothing less
Than purging agony. The bastard! How
Could he expect a miracle when he
Would shrink away from me as from a curse,
Disgruntled by the smell of blood? How queer
He made me feel about it every month!
And now, though separated we have been
For twelve or so months, every time we meet
To talk about a finalized divorce,
He drops maliciously the names of men
He'd always thought, suspected I should say,
I'd slept with, cheating on him night and day."
"Unfinished yet or has it just begun
This morning walk I take day after day
Along the beach to keep my twirling blood
At peace with its own will and with my heart's?
A heart condition could mean anything:
Your heart is failing you or you your heart;
An act of disobedience, nonetheless
Self-calculated, self-declared, while you
Stay dangling will-less between wish and act;
Or could it be the poison she'd instilled
By walking out on me, or could it be…?
I'm tired of these mornings and these walks
Which doctors say will help me hang around.
Around for what they never say the fools.
But hang around and hang such are the rules.
This walk like every day is just a walk,
A conscious trip towards my lonely grave:
My shoes my own gravediggers…"
"Last night I had a dream, a sweet nightmare,
About your mother walking everywhere.
So proper and so righteous was her stroll
You'd think she filled her shoes with her own soul.
And on she went, unheeded by the rain,
Between the drops she walked – which was insane.
And bit by bit, it's awful to recall,
She turned into a turtle, while her shawl
Transformed itself into a turtle shell
So thick and hard not all the flames of hell
Could change its nature. So I blew my nose
And ran away as always on my toes.
As long as she's self-righteous and upright
Cucumber sandwiches will serve her right."
"The wave begins to gather force.
In time she starts to heave a sigh.
She swells in perfect harmony
With her conception of herself.
She runs her course, she hunches, then
Begins to slant and slant along
A field of hissing memories,
(Volitional or otherwise).
But this is all in summer time.
In winter, her portentous rage
Seems fatal as she strikes against
Her other raging images,
As though conflicting with herself.
But not for long. The summer comes
(Volitional or otherwise).
Tamara, running like a wheel
In circles, can observe herself
And nothing else. What else? What else?"
"Had he been here to watch 'Caligula'
With me tonight, since mother's at my aunt's,
He would have drummed his head against the wall,
Or touched the ceiling jumping up and down,
Excited by those haunting scenes of lust,
Of beastly passion, of the hungry mouths
Of lesbians burning with the Roman wine.
His passion is so strange it frightens me
But what a thrilling fright! And what a scare!
His fingers whisper magic and his gaze
A serpent sliding eating at my flesh
And being eaten by him is a thrust
Into a state of wakeful shatteredness."
Upon the blackened screen of her TV
Her private visions marvelled. Colors, shades
Melt, merged, convulsed, subsided, flickered out,
And in a minute flushed with life again.
She saw all what she saw, but did she see
That what she saw was not reality
Or what she would have liked it then to be?
Were those tinges and hues vague promises,
Hints at the future evenings yet to come
Once her divorce was finalized? The thought
Was more than thought. Her dulled eyelashes kept
Their secrets to themselves as tight her hand
Was getting round her empty glass of wine.
"The closet's not the proper place for man.
My flesh and blood are real. You always did
Admit the truth indulgently.
So free me now from all that stinking air
Which but fictitious lovers would enjoy
With beaten souls unlike my own.
What does your mother know? Asexual
As she must be, she must have given birth
To you not knowing what orgasm is like
Before conceiving you and afterwards.
She's never seen you tremble as you do
When you transcend yourself. She's never heard
The "Ah" and "Oooh" and "Ouuuh".
She's never guessed.
So how dare you propose that we should meet
Twice every week and only in the dark
And never mix again in social life
To please her turtle self? You must be mad.
If you are not, I am. I really am.
Come let me plunge myself – I'm really sore—
Into the sweating light upon your shore,
Into the pulsing perfume where the dawn
Of human history breaks with every beat,
Where pain engulfs the joys of instincts all
And flutters –wings and veins—to free the soul."
"Deceptive words deceptive cultures make.
They smell of ancient rot.
Take 'menstrual' for instance:
It is hissed
And never said out loud
As though to keep it from the tricks of air,
In misty breaths
Exuding from the trunks of rust
We call the channels of the human brain.
It's maddening, is it not,
To learn by chance and keep remembering
That 'menstrual', from Latin 'mensis'
Ironically begins with 'men'.
For who can tell me why
That lunar blood keeps pestering
My nostrils with that lunar rot of smell
For three four days a month
And every month
Although I'm living on the first floor
All by myself
While she with all her smells
Sweeps on the fifth her shards of nights and days?
This unmistaken stench that blocks the air,
That litters down the stairs oppressively,
Is nothing but the lava of her soul."
"'Hush, hush', I whispered by the gate of hell
Hoping the two-horn devil would not tell,
But having bribed him once or twice before
I knew he'd nod and let me in once more.
I touched the flames at last. Guess who was there?
My father and your mother in the blur
Of my hell-boiling vision were so close
I could not comprehend. I could suppose
My father's hand was holding her right hand
Tempting her trembling fingers to go mad
For naked like the stars was he. And she
Was blinking madly trying not to see.
I jumped in, for the knight of hell was I
And intervened to stop the blunder. Why?
I could not tell at first, but anyway
I said to horny what I had to say:
'I will not beg you by the names of all
Those wicked wonders since your father's fall
You've practiced on us men – neither by those
Intriguing presences of friends and foes.
But I will beg you by the mellow smell
Her daughter's skin transmits. Electric? Well,
You know what I in my own clumsy way
Am trying through the flames of hell to say.
It's not the duck, you know, I hope is fine
But if she's saved, the duckling will be mine.'
The devil winked. Your mother flew to earth And for your sake was given a new birth".
It was almost an hour, perhaps two,
Since she had slumped upon her window-chair
Which she had set there so purposefully
You'd think it had been there for centuries,
Unwarmed by someone else's heat but hers,
A lonely chair, a speechless mate, whose task
Was to pinpoint what went on down the street,
To reconstruct or just the contrary
Not visions, oh not visions, but blurred scenes.
Her window-glass, her window-chair, and she
Were still inspecting street and pavement, still
Dissecting thighs from hips, and finger-tips
From fingers, heads from hats, umbrellas from
The grasps possessive of young hands and old
When he, their lanky prey, flashed by the curb
And disappeared they knew not where and how.
Upon the whiteness of the window-sill
Her fingers cracked their silence, tapping out
A chart of beating madness, maddening beats,
A thunderstorm of mud, a chronicle
Of ill-tuned rivers, subterranean rains,
And other things of her tormented soul
And other things of what's beyond that soul.
"His will", she told herself, "is not my will.
It's not a rock like mine invincible:
Insensitive to heat and cold and rain.
These elements, convulsing with the change
Ordained by mother nature, will leave him
As time dies out a heap of helpless dust
Forever lost in its infinity".
She held her breath and tighter drew her shawl
Around her stiffened shoulders, then went on:
"It's true with his support my daughter will
Get finally her long-delayed divorce:
His cunning comes in handy, but I think
He is the means mistaken for an end.
But not by me. Perhaps by him and her.
For immature and sentimental both
Have always been in matters of the heart
If heart it be what's binding them so close.
The present is so tight, so let it be
A passing care, true friendship, love affair,
Or any other lie they think it is.
For in the time to come, and sure it will,
My will will master both their destinies."
"It's rather odd, but rather interesting
That every time I look around and see
A little creeping thing, instinctively
I think of instinct as the shaping force,
The radar, so to speak, the guiding light
That gives this tiny creature what it needs
To creep its silent trip from birth to death.
And when I think of it I think of her:
That's why it's odd, so odd indeed since she,
No more an infant, walks on two like me.
Ancient Egyptians tried to solve them all –
Yes all the problems of mortality,
The human flesh with its demands, the soul
With its tormenting longings and its fears.
Hence their obsession with the pyramids,
The epitomes of immortality;
And hence the oddest thing of all
Their likening of the human soul
To just a scarab beetle.
How such a symbol worked for them at all
Will always be just as enigmatic
As is the way she creeps into my mind
When I behold a creeper creeping by."
"His skull (I cannot say his head
For he has lost it long ago
Over the trifling urgencies
Of his hair-thin imaginings)
Is swarming with a mob of flies,
Abusing. Oh, he'll never be
Clear-sighted, for it's true, it's true
A mind too ravaged by distrust
is mind too blind to see."
"'The duty of the artist is to stir
Unease and anguish in the minds of men
And women who indulge in preying on
His private knowledge of himself, not out
Of love or out of curiosity,
But as a sick diversion from the whores
They keep under the skin – their petty souls.'
Whoever wrote these lines makes sense to me
And should make sense to you, Tamara, love.
Although myself am not an artist, I
Feel it's my duty to disturb the mind
Of that steel-shelled old turtle known here as
Christiana Dior of West Beirut – your mom.
Don't laugh at this, and when you laugh don't put
Your fingers to your lips! You're not a child!
Besides, it's foolish and unladylike.
But back to Mother Goose, the epitome
Of social graces – and hypocrisy.
She's been in West Beirut, well, all her life.
She's lived and mixed with Moslems all the way.
And all throughout this war she's never left.
There's nothing more admirable than her
Mulish tenacity. Your fingers off
Your lips I said! Can't you control yourself?
I'm counting facts, and facts you know so well,
Not making up distortions of her soul.
I know her reasons for not liking me
And promise to give her more reasons still.
I'll love you more than she could tolerate
In private and in public. Let her nag
Until she cracks her soul to pieces. Come
And let me share your laughter lip to lip.
Don't push me off. Don't say no, no. oh well
Until you change your mind, Tamara, love,
Let me indulge my senses in the dress
You still have on for reasons feminine."
"Like Rappaccini's Daughter's element
Tamara's is all poison," he proposed
And listened to the echo of his voice
To hear his condemnation once again
Of her whose image floundered here and there
Whenever he was reading Hawthorne's tales.
It was his Hawthorne night, a Hawthorne night:
Dubious with sighs and longings, turbulent
With throbbing hearts and minds, ambiguous
With contradictions, tensions unresolved,
Rich with the perfume of her breath whose breath
Was fatal to the hearts who dared to throb
For her. "If fatal was her very breath,"
He wondered to himself, "what would the stench
Of her oppressive period do to men
Who hanged around to sniff the sultry air?"
But Hawthorne was a gentleman. A man
Of letters from another age. An age
That bred good manners both in words and deeds.
That saved Tamara's odors from his pen.
"Don't waste your precious mornings in deep thought.
Don't rub your angry jeans against the chair.
Don't count your kitchen tiles and uncount them.
Nothing of that will ever help you solve
The riddle of the oil spilt at your door.
Don't look so pensive, for as you'll agree
The Greek philosopher upon your face
Looks like a mask of sheer stupidity!
Relax, relax, I'll tell you all the facts
Since at the moment I feel tense no more.
It's I and no one else who did it all
After midnight of every night. You see
The riddle's not a Greek one. Better say
It's of the day, the now, intrinsical
Its end and its beginning are the cause
And the effect, the tearful eye, the smile,
The hell and heaven of all modern times.
Again I say no riddle should you see
In wine, in ink, or oil spilt at your door:
Neglect as you intended days ago
Did make me madder. Now you know my flaw:
At night I smell your skin, and in my haze
I tremble up the stairs to spill the blaze."
"Nobody's asking you to like the church
But go you must and go you will. How can
I face the gentlest minister of all
When he starts plaguing me with 'Never will
You keep your promise, madam. Where is she
Our dear Tamara? Still engaged in drawing?
Her drawing lessons must be promising
To keep her occupied for weeks on end.
Picasso's not a bad example, but
We'd like to draw her nearer the church.
That certainly will give more peace to her
Still anguished soul than drawing does. Indeed
There is some comfort in Picasso's world,
In colors, lines, fine curves, and formless shapes.
But there is too much stillness in that world
That only helps disturb the soul. You see
The crisis of a marriage breaking down
Is crisis more than what the human soul
Can bear all by itself engulfed by heaps
Of poisoning stillness and ensnaring shades.'
A hundred times I've heard the minister
Insinuate that you should go to church.
Why don't you go and learn how to protect
Your interest in the bargain? Isn't his
Among the voices that will plead your case
Two months from now? The jury will be kind
When he starts pleading for your freedom. Go
And sit and smile and pray if you feel like it.
If not, just sit and curse me in your heart."
"Outrageous exercises of a mind
By its own power ravished; festivals
Of brutal hunting-games where hunters kill
Themselves in sport, in sport revive again;
Incessant wars of passion, love, revenge,
Of serpents of the soul unkillable
By age or poison or forgetfulness –
That's what mad Nietzsche's ravings are about."
Such were his musings as he mused in awe
Of what he was remembering. The night
He had gone through had been his German night,
A night of writhing mists. Today the sun
Has been so gentle as to clear the air
Of mist and dust alike. So finally
He took a breath as deep as the abyss
His mind had pondered all alone last night –
And pushed his weakened feet and pushed again
To stretch the distance of his daily walk
A little farther.
He hammers his maxims and interludes!
But lies he tells and nothing but more lies
When he declares that in revenge and love
More barbarous is woman than is man.
What might apply to Germans, dear Nietzsche,
Does not apply to me. Just wait and see.
If ever does Tamara flap her wings
In Celebration of her freedom, you
And her blood-sucking jury will all see
Who's in revenge is much more barbarous
The I I know or as you thought the she.
You've read too much into the soul of man
But mine, in secret hatched, will hatch a plan."
"There's nothing like the color of the night:
You wear it at midday, the blazing sun
Can only stare at its integrity.
So trust the falling dark and closer hide
Your tantrums in its layers and in me.
These layers are not mine but also yours
And his and hers whose wakeful eyes
Tell tales forbidden (though most natural)
To ears untuned to joyful sounds – like Mom's.
I pity her. She's too much in the light.
She can't enjoy what we're enjoying now.
A spinster in the soul, she's never hugged
Her image in the mirror or caressed
Her skin to blazing as some women do
Tempted by secret voices of the night.
Nor has she ever loved a man. Her man
Was father of her children, not the man
Whose passion clicked an echo in her own.
You won't believe it, but for years on end
My father was denied his right to joy.
His bed deserted, he deserted both
His children and his wife and flew away
As far as wing and wind could carry him.
He's now a happy stranger in Quebec,
Or in a ghastly city like Detroit,
The one with million factories and smoke
Haunting the streets eternal as a curse.
He could be anywhere. I'm telling you
All this to make a point. We're luckier
Than either of my parents. Don't you see
Why we should wear the color of the night?"
"The beast in me is cornered, nothing left
Except imagination for a cure
And curse alike. So not at all in vain
Are all these silences that creep within
Between one beat and beat, one pulse and pulse
Perhaps to regulate, perhaps to weigh
Event against eventuality."
"Evasion's not the proper remedy
For such a monstrous familiarity
That grows beyond my hateful tolerance
And calculated patience between these
Two fools of kind, intensified by their
Secret arrangement to meet everywhere
Except under this roof. The mischievous!
They think I'm blind to their atrocities?
Not for one wink. Oblivious I am not
Of social facts, of what is proper, of
The binding ties of what we are. We are
Not only Christians with a privilege
But chosen Ps. as well. Or am I wrong
In saying so? Correct me, sister. Do."
Her dear old sister now was lounging there
On one gigantic sofa, not a chair,
Fighting against her superfluity:
It wasn't disproportion of the flesh
Hanging in formless bundles from her arms
That made the room look like a slaughterhouse.
It wasn't just the arms. The legs and thighs
Tumbled against each other when she sat
Or walked. She was in all sincerity
Nature's revenge against Divinity:
She was an insult to the very Lord
In whose own image she was made ten-fold.
So thought her Christian world of her although
The world had never favoured less the flesh
She had perhaps been saving for old age.
Whatever was the case, she started thus:
"I've never had the slightest intention
To tell you you are right or wrong. In time
You'll see all for yourself. Whatever I
Believe or disbelieve will never do
You any good since you have set your mind
Against the truth, against all common sense.
But just to pass the time I'll speak my mind:
There were no Protestants in Lebanon
Until American and Birt'sh schools
Invaded us say one two hundred years
Ago. Which makes us converts as you know."
Tamara's mother's eyes froze in protest
Against the mocking voice of her own flesh
Whose reading of the history of the world
(Their world) was condemnation of the mind
And soul of every one who hanged around
By chance or choice to listen to her voice.
The mocking voice went on diligently:
"There's no denying we are converts all.
Our ancestors or some of them at least
Were Muslims – poor, unprivileged, and lost,
Ripe with despair and ready to convert
To Christianity which promised hope
And education free of any charge
For their unpromised children. Future swirled
With blinding colors in their tearful hearts
When Christian schools with humble ministers
Whispered the gentle word "prosperity"
In tone that spoke no superiority
Though rich in power and humility.
Salvation was a paradox. And still…"
"Had you not been my flesh I would have charged
Your disrespectful tongue with blasphemy.
But that will never do, so I'll be brief
And tell you straight, as straight as I can be,
That once Tamara's free, once her divorce
Is finalized, she may be tricked again
Into a blind attachment with a freak
Whom she knows well to be a Muslim. Come
Will not that be a degradation? Will
Not that be my undoing? Pray, no more."
"It's useless to pretend we cannot see
The other pointed edge, the sharper one,
Of that same weapon we've been fighting with
Our endless battles – for we always learn
All weapons are a spindle, one, the same,
That wears the mask of multiplicity
Perhaps to please the eyes perhaps to blind
The hearts of different men of different wills.
It's useless to pretend we can't foresee
Our actions' counter-actions: now and here
Are always then and there, and then and there
Are always now and here: the pendulum
Foretells its falling motion as it sails
To touch the highest point of its own curve."
"That course of tablets never worked for me
No matter how sincere you tried to be
When you yawned out your feminine advice
With absent-minded lips, when once or twice,
You breathed your drunken wisdom in my ears
And made me all oblivious to my years.
'Drink never mix with tranquilizers', I
Repeated after you while gulping down
My tablet with a glass of wine. But no
Passion is passion uncontrollable,
An ever-surging force, of its own will
It poisons, kills, and recreates as we
Thunder against it, lost and never free."
"What's that in him that makes my life a test?
That keeps the colors howling in my breast?
What magic serpent is this quality –
His phallic demon or his intellect?"
"You can't unlock your heart and feel the same
About yourself tomorrow. Barriers
Of soft suspicions glazed with furtiveness,
Of verbal non-commitment when the wild
Aggressions of the hearts of youthful men
And women glow to lighting, are the thing
You need to keep your world intact, to lean
Again against your window-sill to breathe
The air unmystified by sultry fogs.
I'm not a born philosopher, but life
Has made me wiser than those pretty books
That teach unlucky minds unlucky words.
I know it all, dear sister; you, no doubt,
Know just as much, if not a little more.
We both agree in principle, don't we,
On all the troubling questions that beset
Our blasted minds, our tortured hearts, although
Your lips keep drawing and re-drawing signs
Keep drawing and re-drawing signs
Of gentle doubts - - your doubts your constancy."
Tamara's mother blinked and blinked again
As though to free her vision from the ghost
Of her unblinking guest (who never came
But who had never left the sitting-room
Since sunset of the day before.) Tonight
Tamara's mother had to speak her mind,
To fight her battle in the gasping wind
Against and for her logic – all the same.
"What wrongs have I committed, oh, what wrongs
Against Tamara or against the world
In which she staggers her ungrateful feet
Or struts in youthful foolishness – what sins
To be so punished by your silent lips?
I'm just a cautious mother who intends
To wipe away the blur, to show the light
To her self-blinded daughter. Never will
She for herself see what I can foresee:
The hell that Moslem toothpick of a man
Will raise the day she's destined to be free.
The ghost could not but venture a reply
(Is not the ghost an agent of the soul
Compelled to rise from caverns not unknown
In blind response to calls he can't ignore?):
"Your attitude, seditious as your tone,
Will only aggravate Tamara's wounds.
Her freedom from her husband, when attained,
Will be her second coming, a rebirth
Of anguished tensions startled all at once
By unclear visions of the future. Your
Free love should be the potion and the cure,
The breeze that brings the peaceful drowsiness
Not to the eyes alone but to the whole.
Therefore, don't let your motives be the rein
And harness, not again, not anymore –
She'll run the course of life against your will
And leave you chained by your indulgences
In pure self –interest. Freedom is the choice…"
"And self-delusion I may add. Your words
Are ripe with truth but truth is more than words.
What if Tamara chose to sin against
Herself and me and Christianity
By falling into marriage, not in love,
With that unchristian…"
"Toothpick of a man?
What then? He's been indeed more than a friend.
He's always been around and always will.
Believe you me there are worse things in life
For her to do than choose to be his wife.
More perspiration! Still..?"
"Should this be done,
Not all the Kleenex tissues in the world
Could wipe away the shame, for shame alone
Will be the perspiration of my soul."
"You're luxuriating in the very sweat
Your angry skin has summoned in response
To your high-toned theatricality.
But that will never do. Your strategy
In ten more days will, like an octopus,
Strike every where in mad confusion. Now
Is just the proper time for you to save
Your will from its own monsters."
You call my love and my precaution?! Damned
Be I if ever once again I turn
To you for help in this affair. I've lost
My only husband, and my only son
Has settled down somewhere abroad. You seem
To have forgotten how it feels to be
Alone and doomed. Old age is by the curb,
And so is he, my daughter's lover-friend."
"Ten days, ten nights, ten monsters to be slain
Before she flaps her wings. I know she will
Although the flippant minister has dared
To comfort me by lying. Venomous
His very breath and very promises!
My only comfort (he will never guess,
Nor will Tamara, blinded by the free
Sensations of her triumph) is to plot
And execute an ending to this farce
More brutal and more farcical than she
Or her unthoughtful jury ever could
Imagine if they were to live again
And plot again to screw me in the face.
I'll wait ten days, but after those ten days
The beast will haunt the jungle of a time
Untamed by love, unregulated by
Sweet, old, old mercy. Creep and hold your breath.
Wear nothing but the color of the shade,
The blanket of invisibility.
Move every where but gently like the breeze,
Leaving no footsteps for them any where
By which to track your heart's intentions deep
And deeper in the jungle of your time.
But that's enough, my mind, hold nothing now
In store against tomorrow. Sleep entranced,
For that's the way to sleep in peace, then wake
In peace again to take the journey back
Each day a step into Tamara's mind,
The nest of her green conscience. Vengefulness
Disguised by gentle immobility
Will be my master and her demon. I
Should first of all plan not to leave this house
To join my parents on the eastern side
Of this blue city. Strange as it may seem
To all my neighbors in this building, I
Will make my home and tomb of these two rooms,
An ever-green reminder to her eyes
And conscience of my plight, my weakened heart
That has betrayed its function, that may not
(Perhaps will never) drum the beats again
To healthy regularity. This done,
I should have fits – like shaking my four limbs,
With my chest heaving as I gasp for air,
Or fits of tumbling or of falling down
The stairs. (Almost). For never should my neck
Be risked in such attempts. Immediately
Her help, her gentle kindness, should be sought.
(Am I not here all on my own, no wife
No parents, no God-fearing brothers, no
One else but she to lend a gentle hand?)
Who else but she will buy me medicine
Or drive me to my office every day
When I'm depressed like hell after the fit
Has struck and left me prey to pure despair?
Oh, she will cook for me as well. She'll wash
My dirty socks and underpants. In time
Guilt makes eternal slaves of weaker souls."
"I'll never catch a wink tonight. The dream
I had last night I've had tonight – the same
Nightmarish swelling in my abdomen
With both my nipples hard though lavishly
Streaming – in white surrender – with the white
That made all liquids lurid to my sight.
I know it cannot be, but what if I
Were not to see the blood again? My fears
Are stronger than my will and so before
This week is over both my eyes will have
Betrayed the secret of my womb. Of course
It's only speculation on my part
Since I have missed it more than once before
And for more different reasons than can I
Remember at the moment. I should laugh
And laugh again indeed at my own thoughts,
Undergrounded as they are. But just suppose
That I were pregnant and he sensed I were,
Would he, the silent egotistical,
Not seize the chance to fix me in the court
By saying he suspects my pregnancy
By an outsider? Would not he demand
That I should be examined? Count on him!
For he would do the vilest thing to harm
My reputation. That should quench his thirst
For humiliating me in public – not
Forgetting that he would secure the house
All for himself. Oh, God, it's seven nights
Between tonight and that appalling day
When we'll appear in court. It sure will save
My life to be a tampon girl again."
"The pendulum has lost its rhythmical
Assurances for neither left nor right
It dances its own distance as before.
Measured by distance, time is time no more."
"Is that you there? Or just a glimpse of you
Sifting through twirls of fog immovable
In their self-centered motion? Gravity
Has cast a spell. But, hark, what's there?
The coffin shakes (almost triangular
Pulled by three panting turtles back and forth
And in that third direction, here and there)
Declaring distance nil and wiping out
All human possibilities that wake
To active being in the pulse of time.
Distance and time are dead, forever dead,
So tells the moving coffin still unmoved,
While you transfixed, though sifting through the fog,
Held tight against your breath, your eyes upon
The trembling coffin and sometimes
Upon your feet, counting the steps unstepped."