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“I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness―in a landscape selected at random―is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants.- nabokov
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And so she turned—
I kept her grunting and lost
In the guest bathroom
And soon the melody
Of her movements matched
The cacophony of the others
Shifting around outside.
How I longed
To open the door to see her.
But I knew she was no longer
The daughter I loved.
Yet a part of me wondered
If there was any bit of Ava left
In that shell.
If she was aware,
At some level,
Of what she had become.
Every night, I soothed her
With a song — the same one
I sang to her when she was a baby,
Nestled in my arms.
She always stopped her shuffling
And listened. But tonight,
She quietened and cooed,
And for the first time,
She said, “Maa maa,” slowly
And concisely as if she were
Struggling with vocal chords
Which were ripped beyond repair.
I could not help it.
I had to know.
Tears rolling down my face,
I placed my hand on the doorknob.
I took a deep breath and turned.
Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one
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Why is truth not allowed to exist anymore? Why is basic reality banned from our lives? Nobody believes in basic logic anymore! Truth judges...