things that are not there

I sat in The Coffee Tree for a week, reading europeana, and then gave birth to Leonard. And Leonard has existed only in partial sentences and placeless paragraphs. He has even shown up at restaurants and in dreams. But he has no story of his own. He touches the edges of the stories of others. He is my self in this way.

Every morning I sit with empty pages, blank screens, and I hope that I will fill them with something beautiful.

And every morning I fill them with only words and punctuation. There is nothing to get beneath, to bury a heart inside. I have once or twice in reading forgotten that I am reading lines, and have drifted into the words and could not even hear a voice, like when a book is narrated in a film, but have entered into a dream state. And it was terribly jarring to recall that I was only reading words.

I am less and less alone. It is because of the written word on durable materials that I know that a man three thousand years ago lost as much as I, or more. Even the dead will not leave me alone with their misery and complaining.

Four swans give a song to the sons of a king, something to convey to their grandfather: our sorrow is endless, our misery and torment are great, our tears do not cease.

Why not that they are at least together. That the sight of the sons gave them joy. Are lamentations better than psalms. Perhaps it is so. I require more time to decide.