Nights On The Peninsula
We could not separate ourselves from our endless making. We were always fabricating time, God, paradise, the bell-shaped lupines, the rough-grained elm and smooth beech. We made the night sky from a rusty hinge, the sea from a sigh and a bead of sweat. We made love long before dawn. We constantly modified each other, adding a leer to the other's face, or a smirk, even in sleep. What kind of a tool-maker invents eternity and exile and makes them race, like a child with the index and middle finger? Even in dreams we bore the burden of waking, we called it suffering. Even in a trance we had maps and blueprints. In the deepest dream we received the gift of death—it rained on that peninsula. The wind passed like a sponge over the gambrel roofs. The leaves showed a blank side, veined like a cresting wave. We were almost home, we thought. We had never seen this world but we sensed it, like a cat's breath against our wrists: we were married, the bees loved us, the ocean might relent, the child muttered over a handful of dust and spit.
Copyright © 2011 by D. Nurkse. Used with permission of the author.