The Same Old Love

"Prodigal, you have given me love! Therefore I to you give love."

Iago cocks an inquiring eyebrow.

I shrug. "Sorry."

"It's all right honey. At least Whitman is a change..."

I sigh. Poor Iago has to put up with a lot. The only reason he hasn't given me up entirely, is that he's gay. He sort of understands poetry. And the heart of the heart, the centre of the centre, and the quiet dark. Oh God, I'm at it again...

I celebrate myself and what I assume, you shall assume...

"Darling, I'll have to take away your Leaves of Grass if you don't become more coherent. What exactly are you trying to tell me?"

A familiar refrain. Speak clearly Jenn, no one knows what the heck you're trying to say.

I struggle for utterance. The thing is, words dissolve in my brain and reform in entirely unexpected ways.

Every atom that belongs to me as good as belongs to you...

"That's nice sweetie," his shoulders droop and I can hear him thinking across the cold, cavernous space between: "No use trying to get any sense out of her today."

I bow my head ashamed and allow my long matted hair to cover my face. It smells of unwashed neglected human. It smells of shattered structures. It smells of the debris of unborn children.

Iago leaves.

And I am alone. Walt won't come to see me today, I don't think.

There's the white shell I put to my ears. The sea rushes in. Other smells. Pleasanter smells.

Memory.

Smells.

Memory.

Ceremonial incense burning and I intone with an intensity that surprises the birds:

To die is different from what anyone supposes. And luckier.

To die is different from what anyone supposes. And luckier.

To die is different from what anyone supposes. And luckier.

I finger the prayer beads fervently.

Maybe he'll empty out the words and take me away from my dank hair and stale garments.

A ragged discordance is torn from my throat...

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what one supposes, and luckier.

God help me.

Or send Walt.