There Are No Names For Red.
There Are No Names For Red II And the sky is red And the moon And light is this rain. This is all the terror we can bear: the moment between flame and where shadow begins but only so much as can be cupped in a child's palm and yet to say: the loved one has slipped to ghost. VIII Winter is defeated by a flock of geese flying towards the sun. The sea is only as lonely as a single conch, or a sand dollar frittered away on an impossible dream. Even this bold black line. The Igbo believe the sun is only the aura of a creature we have no name for. What is song here is ritual in another language. XI That woman in a New York cafe cannot escape what it means to sound like a Boer. If I were a better man, I would have compassion. The thing is this: the dead won't stay buried. Emily said, about the woman on the bus. She said are you going to the other side? How easy it is for light reflecting off a polished wood floor to bend into metaphor. Fire, water and mud. What a curious way to make a body. Gravity wasn't the apple to Newton's head and yet he claims discovery. But the moment you point to the black dog shivering against the red door in the relentless rain, you lose it. XXIII To be sure there are lines, shapes and swirls of color even. Like Van Gogh it is what is not alive that lives here. Imaginary trees in the throes of convulsions and a compulsion that is totemic not atavistic. Though there is sacrifice, there is compassion too. And this is why we fear spiders. In a pinch they will outsmart us. A dog on a moonlit night. A dog on a moonlit night. A dog on a moonlit night. No, it's just night spinning its lies. See this knife. This knife is dull. This knife pulls a jagged wish through oils as thick as butter. This knife is sacrifice. This knife is the priest. Percival's heart bleeds on a stiff white canvas window. And beyond? A dog and a moonlit night.
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|Publication:||World Literature Today|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2007|
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