Furious Lullaby

Aubade with Memory Crystallized into a Figure of a Dancer

54 Aubade฀with฀Memory฀Crystallized฀into฀a฀Figure฀of฀a฀Dancer That฀night฀was฀spent฀searching฀for฀a฀form฀of฀fire฀.฀.฀.฀the฀street lights฀spilled฀off฀your฀face—the฀corner฀of฀the฀room fully฀flooded฀with฀sapphire,฀a฀sticky฀flame.฀Earlier, we฀had฀found฀a฀picture฀book฀you฀kept฀when฀you฀were฀young and฀you฀wondered฀aloud,฀“Who฀was฀that฀voice?” She฀had฀wanted฀to฀be฀a฀dancer—she฀had฀wanted฀to฀be฀the฀moon. Such฀an฀awkward฀grace,฀to฀be฀the฀moon.฀Sky-bald, abandoned.฀Zero฀and฀sleepless฀it฀aches฀and฀is฀cold. It฀is฀far฀from฀fire,฀yet฀you฀crave฀it฀as฀though฀the฀rage of฀sizzling฀insects,฀if฀loud฀enough,฀could฀spur฀the฀sun. How฀do฀you฀fathom฀it฀then?฀Childhood฀singled฀out.฀Ageless in฀your฀pirouettes฀about฀the฀sky,฀gravity-less฀and฀wounded. And฀who฀would฀she฀kiss,฀I฀ask,฀and฀who฀would฀she฀ache or฀grieve?฀And฀are฀you฀still฀so฀small฀and฀flickering฀or฀is฀it฀the฀window who฀makes฀this฀mistake?฀Is฀it฀the฀body’s฀battement฀and฀ballon฀that฀฀ vaults฀you into฀the฀past,฀beyond฀sleep?฀We฀could฀not฀find฀your฀toe-shoes among฀the฀childhood฀things฀you฀hid,฀though฀we฀kept฀ourselves฀awake until฀dawn,฀searching฀because฀you฀had฀wanted฀them and฀they฀had฀possessed฀you.฀They฀were฀just฀shoes฀but฀to฀you a฀snare฀in฀the฀moment฀is฀everything.฀Nothing฀would฀convince฀you otherwise.฀Not฀the฀hour฀or฀the฀way฀the฀hour฀begged฀you฀to฀stop. Though฀this฀moment฀makes฀you฀that฀celestial฀body, 55 you฀cannot฀be฀that฀dancer,฀crystallized฀into฀the฀azure฀body of฀that฀sphere’s฀deepest฀crevasse.฀Though฀there฀were฀rivers on฀that฀satellite฀once,฀the฀arch฀of฀your฀foot฀buckles under฀the฀weight฀of฀your฀memory.฀The฀angels฀of฀the฀past฀ cannot฀be฀awakened฀through฀the฀turnings฀of฀a฀simple฀picture฀book or฀the฀physical฀gleanings฀of฀the฀body฀recalling฀a฀moment when฀it฀was฀airborne.฀Despite฀every฀aperture฀of฀the฀evening turned฀to฀morning,฀this฀figure฀of฀you฀that฀you’ve฀memorized— grande฀battement—would฀it฀recognize฀itself,฀flying,฀perhaps,฀or฀ earthbound? Even฀in฀daylight฀would฀she฀laugh?฀Would฀she฀flare? ...