J.A. TYLER
There is a sister falling down the rocks of a river, tripping down the rivulets of a lake, this man’s opposition, this man’s opposite, the waves to his stillness, the photographic evidence to his imagined beliefs, the way he carved wood, the extension of his hands. His sister. The sister who came in and out at the moments of his last breath, the last wind he could make, the sucking in of the sun, the tunnelling of the white into sheer, nothingness black. This sister. Kissing the dying man’s forehead, feeling the sneaking cold, the burn masking corpse panic, her tears tucked too deep inside to show. Hidden in the way he couldn’t mate, the way he couldn’t connect, the pretended want of his reach, the woman he spoke of but never to, the dying man, his body pinned to the bed, his sister going gone gone gone.
& (thirty-one)
