• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 12
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In Gethsemane you tell me we will meet at this place. You will bring your horn and I my ancestor’s bone. Instead, you give me offerings. Small, metallic people lovingly crafted with numbed fingers that we insert into new openings I’ve acquired in my body since we last met. Whose mouths thin, then morph into the sounds of injuries travelling through planes. We will crawl from opposite ends of the room carrying bits of a ceiling beneath our tongues, howling a language we’ve inherited at the window in exchange for reduced scenes of a bright morning. We will collect receipts for resurrections, tiny white flags strewn on the ground stained by rubble. After our dance of blindness, of ashes becoming gold at an angle, there is stillness.

In Sorbonne

You tell me we will meet at this place. You will call me by my name.


We will come naked. I will remember cold wood, debris, a dilapidated throne. And the small army you built for me dispatched around cities, blinking away blood in revolving doors.