Scar
Scar
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Author(s): Bond, Bruce
ISBN No.: 9781733674140
Pages: 144
Year: 202011
Format: Trade Paper
Price: $ 24.84
Dispatch delay: Dispatched between 7 to 15 days
Status: Available

The Lost Language If you are searching for a friend online, an insomniac to break the bread of misery and silence, look no farther. Trust me, says anonymous, the voice in rivers after dark is no illusion. It is an angel. And who can resist. If I am broken just enough, I fly. I suspend my physical heart, alive, among the saints and champion banners. I never met an angel, but I saw one once in a painting, in one hand poppies, the other a harp, and though it made no music, it seemed so finely strung in the fire of a child's hair, it nearly played itself. The Lost Language When I want a thing, I put a little music in my voice.


It comes by instinct, the hunger in the song before it is sung, and so, I imagine, it never goes away. A new language comes out of no one person or place and a little of the all. When I think of my father I think of words turning into water. I think therefore I stream his music in my head. My measure of him phrased, desired, mourned. Hard to resurrect the world without a world left out, to make our losses sing. Where there is one, there must be two. I too am scared.


Paradise is lonely. Scar 2 Today I catch sight of the scar my student pulls the cuff of her sleeve to conceal, and she answers a look I did not know I gave her. I was, she tells me, working through some issues, and she hands me a poem. I'm so sorry, I say, in proxy for a mystery. I want to say more. Then less. I am pulling at a sleeve of my own. It's fine, she says.


Writing helps, and so I read, I cut. I question. How deep is too deep. I do not know. Is the knife still there. Does it move as the eye moves, asleep, the page gone dark, the lid in shivers. Asking to be raised. Narissus in the Underworld 26 The creak of boats in swells of the harbor sounds a warning like hinges of a forest or failed estate.


So difficult to get news from news, history from history, by which I mean writing and the written off. The auguries of smoke and wind blow dust from the glass of eyes that sting. Earth keeps spinning the storm surge north, and mountains sink, and refugees come, and foreign words for home in the distance. When a shoreline breaks, it breaks open, and in flow the pixels too small to see, stars of neither cruelty nor grace, but a sorrow so deep its name has not arrived.


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