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56 CAROLYN BEARD WHITLOW Book of Ruth Whither thou goest . . . I learn to live by guile, to do without love. I’m not scared. I wait in the dark for you, Sleeping to avoid death, tired of sleep. The withered dyed rug fades, dims, fades, recolors, Warp frayed, weft unraveled; as light looms dark, I doubt I’m happy as can be in this house. Outside no one would guess inside this house I learn to live by guise, disguise my pain. Love Dinner served by pyre light, sit doused by dark, Cornered in my room, wait in the dark for you. The bureau melts to shadow; that unraveled, uncolors. Sleep to avoid death, tired of sleep, I avoid the mirror, the lie of truth. You sleep Downstairs, chin lobbed over, chair rocked, spilled, house Distilled in techtonic dreams of Technicolor, Mostly golf course green and Triumph blue. I love Earthpots, cattails, a fireplace, no reflection of you. While you sleep, I sip steeped ceremonial teas, dark As coffee, your swirled wineglass breathing dark Downstairs fumes in the living dead room. Sleep Comes easy, comes easy. I’m not scared. For you I curtsy before your mother, say I love this house. I love this house, this room. I love this. I love. The traffic light blinks black and white. No color. Come Monday, I’ll dustmop, repaper with multicolor Prints, zigzag zebra stripe rooms, fuschias, no dark Blue or sober gray, none of the colors that you love. Insomnia is sweet, I think, the once I cannot sleep: I’m not scared. I’m not scared. This is my house. Illumined by darkness, I watch my dark mirror you. No. No silent hostage to the dark, I know you Cast a giant shadow in a grim fairy tale, colors Bloodlet, blueblack, spineless yellow trim this house; Escaped maroon, I emerge from a chrysalined dark, Succumb, mesmered under a light spring-fed sleep, Nightmare over, giddy, without sleep, with love. The colors of the room fade into dust, house now dark. I’m not scared. I learn to live without you, with love, To do without sleeping to avoid death, tired of sleep. ...

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