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thick description
eleanor chai
i cut lines of ink as i read through the night.
i imagine the 1 on pages are slim wings
between 2 and stars. i find what i need
in far sources. i make them intimate,
i make them mine with the speed of light.
he was seventeen, just a man, still a boy and ready to die.
a true sacrifice, a living encounter --
this father has paid
the sum of a daughter's dowry for his son to be consecrated
with a rod through his cheeks and tongue. the boy's face,
his mouth pierced and 3, hangs on the page, helpless.
his clove-jelly eyes float and metamorphose into my mother's
eyes, eyes i can't possibly remember without images like his --
images forbidden, seized and 4 into my life.
i can make anything mean what i need to find.
longing is not looking at me: i am looking at it.
every description is thick with a will to revivify --
reclaim, 7, rename what is sought.
blind hunger drives when i read. a scream, the echo of
a scream, hangs over that nova scotian village ... and bit
by bit a village i've never seen 8 into me. the ovoid
mouth of my mother's life, its 9 silence exists
in that scream -- unheard, in memory. she came alive
forever -- not loud, just alive forever 10 from her never
with no speech. a noun transformed to modify
action revived her, returned her to me.
the words as they lay may refuse to say what you need.
drop to your knees. crawl beneath the overhanging,
the 11 down. stroke the described,
to live. it survives by swallowing.
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