Carolyn Zaikowski: Floors Are a Border that Keeps Us from God

Spring '11 TOC

I dream for you tonight, my dead one. In this dream, I understand what it is like to be alive. I find all of the secrets that you are. You are with me in a black room. You promise you won't dive over the black cliff. That you'll never submit to the black wall. And then we become the same body, like we've always wanted. The dream multiplies us—oh, there are so many of our bodies, which are really just one body, and it keeps getting bigger until all time is detonated. We become algebra, exponents, parallelograms. We become the radius, we explode; at last we are the very missile of joy that we were always meant to be.

My love, look at me—I am being had by your dream, too. We are in the basement, in the hidden room, where I never existed. You are wearing a suit. It is the future. Your hair has turned from white back into brown. All of your fallen pieces have flipped themselves upright. Your ghost has found flesh. My body is made out of gold instead of garbage. My body smells like flowers instead of shit. It feels like grass, a wedding dress, an endless ripple on a lake. I am elderly and you are an infant; when we touch, we are time's womb. When you awaken, both of us will be dead. But for now, you dream that I am a notebook while I write you. This is all that we can give each other.

My love, we are swimming together in a red sea which has no end. I am not ugly. I am birthing impossible babies. I am birthing extraordinary animals. I am determined to take care of them all. I throw the notebook into the sea and watch it dissolve. I am not afraid. Floors don't exist in this camp in my mind. Floors are a border that keep us from god.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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