There was no light switch on any wall in this house,
there were lamps and candles, wax tendrils drip-dripping down the halls.
I had a masterpiece to finish, my mistress was calling for the time
for when it’s time, it’s time
to add the last accent,
to trim the last inch of scrap paper.
Her name, Abigail, shone majestically,
inherited a primordial sabbath
and made bracelets out of its foreboding.
My mistress stayed, always ‘neath the chandelier
of her watch tower, somewhere up the coast
only reachable by a non-motorized boat,
for there were no such boats back then.
She called to me breathlessly,
my crimson robe shredding into yarn,
Abigail will have her way,
Abigail will stake a claim
on what I am too obstinate to conquer
Too liminal to make solid
that which binds me to sunken treasure.
Abigail bids me to make haste down the hall,
a lamp in hand, I dash off,
after her fleeing shadow.
Halted by the vision of a raccoon and beaver,
both with much to share,
a sideways glance into the dark catches fire to science,
I lift my head up to the watch tower, my eyes open a slit
Abigail has come through with me,
my flesh is her flesh, as the best mistress wears it,
softer than a vow with no echo,
gentler than a blood-oath
sworn when I wasn’t looking.
— yiqi 7 april 2015 3:27 pm
Top image cred: original to John Nowak