Serial Library passage Apr. 12

12 Apr

The woman whose hair was the next in the series of poems did the dirty deed. The man felt the woman inside him like being stabbed in the heart. He died at the end of each of the woman’s poems. The poems came like icicles raining from the place inside the woman that was raw and open, a wounded rabbit blearing its blood along the surface of the woman’s skin, howling deep within the woman’s tremulous skin.

We are the masters of our own destiny, said the magistrate. We are the light at the edge of the world. We are the prongs on the forks in the cupboard of the secret house our tiniest wishes live in. We are twice the size of the place we thought we were going in the days before we got to where we have finally found ourselves going to today.

Alice looked out the window. There was a guy with a knapsack in the rain. A small black dog ran along the sidewalk. A kid sat on his dad’s lap inside the café watching the guitar player. Alice went in the washroom. There was a gold dog with the black dog when she came back out and sat at her table by the window. The two dogs had a piece of rubber they were taking turns killing. Normally, Alice didn’t sanction killing. But dogs kill rubber things. Alice understood this. This seemed like the normal course of affairs to Alice. It seemed okay. She felt something inside her float out of her, leaving her empty of anything. Whatever it was that floated out of her, it was all she had. She set her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. She felt the freedom of being empty, the unutterably painful freedom of having nothing left.

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