Oh my loves my lo-ammi, oh tiger-children and witch-women, I am so full of words! They bunch together and get stuck in my eyes and my hands.

Timeo Danaos indeed, for are not most of the dead the dead the dead from Greece? Socrates is a sharp-clawed manticore, and Plato a gargantuan water-bear too far-sighted for spectacles. Odysseus is a jackal, Helen the butcher-bird, and Athena grey-eyed goddess has more blood in her chamber than Bluebeard. Those who love them become like them, and their teeth are admirably strong. What big, bright, white, wet, shining, solid, well-rooted cuspids and bicuspids and cusps of all kinds! They grow fat and flourishing.

Out here in the desert the winds blow through my eye-sockets. Out here the vulture and I discuss the words of the abbas in measured tones, with long pauses that the sunlight fills. Out here the bones in my hands hum but gently.

The prophet and the Marigold Woman hesitate still on the verge of the swamp. The elephants have one last chance to achieve their pirouettes. The morning-doves mutter amongst themselves, watching the king of jacks with suspicious eyes. The clouds sit low and weep occasional tears in an occasional eulogy.

Out here in the desert the sun tries to find a finger-hold in the shade of the cells. Out here I know two things, two things and a third. Out here the dust is warm.

Out here, I wait.

SCENE: The prophet and the Marigold Woman look at the trees with considering eyes. It is night, and they are alone. The moon is not quite–not quite–full. The clouds haze around it. The bottlefield spreads its twinkling fruit behind them.

Prophet: We can’t stay there.

Marigold Woman: Why not?

Prophet: I don’t know. They won’t let us. The witch is still out there, and the bees, and the robots, and–oh!–a million and one things. The elephants–

Marigold Woman: The elephants are leaving.

Prophet: I guess. For now. I don’t trust those elephants.

Marigold Woman: scowling I will never go back to the witch’s kingdom.

Prophet: Oh, you will. You will. You’ll do it every day. You’ve closed the doors nice and tight but you know what? I think you just wove yourself another cocoon.

Marigold Woman: What if I did? What’s it to you?

Prophet: I wish I knew. I only wish I knew. removes cap, scratching head Got a light?

Marigold Woman: No.

3.3.3

SCENE: The elephants are here! The elephants continue to shuffle about in the moonlight, but they still have not got the beat. The Cheshire watches them from the spot where the garden gnome used to stand, in the tall grass.

Cheshire: Look, the king of jacks is in the window again. this to the boy with the angel face

Boy: Oh, let him stay.

Cheshire: looks at him sharply Oh?

Boy: Yeah, maybe–maybe I like him. Maybe we need him around here. I mean, where would I be if I wasn’t needed? Maybe if he left–maybe I– he half-raises his hands, a helpless expression making his eyebrows slip

Cheshire: You’re afraid, my precious foxling.

Boy: N… nobody needs me any more. he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing away from the dancing-lawn and down along the path, all edged with monarch butterflies and white wire, that leads to the pool. The sound of scorpions and blacksnakes drifts through the cool air.

Cheshire: What is it you think makes you so necessary, foxling?

Boy: kicks at the ground and frowns more deeply, but does not respond

Cheshire: Bless you.

Boy: I didn’t sneeze.

Cheshire: Who said anything about sneezes?

The elephants continue to shuffle about.

My blood is made of yellow sunshine, it only dries red-brown homely.

Blessed ones, I strive to be whatever you need, an abba-of-every-shape that I may have words for each and every inexpressibly adored visitor. I hang in little ribbons some days, it is a relief to know that my job has been done well. But sometimes, on those days, a little voice comes in the dirty sunlight and he whispers to me. He suggests most subtly that I have not done right, I have not done enough, or perhaps I have done too much.

I would die for them, I tell him, is that not enough?

But what good are gifts given in folly?

That is the king of jacks, that one, he’s a clever poker player and he plays the blues like nobody’s business. But he stole the blues from the oldest bluesman that ever was, who hung himself with someone else’s hands. That man knew how to die for ‘em, all right. One he’d finished there was no point anyone having a go.

So why do I keep trying?

He was a tiger, and his children are tiger-cubs. So why does the king of jacks sit on my window-sill licking his chops and whispering wolf-words?

Mostly I don’t know what to be, if the original bluesman, the original abba, the certified original tiger, got the last word in. What other key is there to play in? They only taught me the one, I can’t jump to the next fifth on the circle.

Maybe if I knew that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so kindly towards the king of jacks. Maybe I could finish up that dear john and change all the locks.

Who knows?

Prophet and Marigold Woman are at last on the move again, but slowly, brother, slowly, looking at Mt. Fuji with snail’s eyes. The air bubbles with thick-tongued thoughts looking for heads to inhabit.

The dead the dead the dead, they whisper insistent hissing suspicions of every tradition that someone else preached. If you love truth too well they will catch your ankles in cold hands, warbling in their throats false promises of gnosis too delicious for words.

Avoid the graveyards, if you love truth too well, for your jealousy will open your ears to the dead the dead the dead, and rob you of your discernment. They will tempt you and shame you and slide their fingers through your skull, so that the cold air blows through and the night rot sets in.

If you love truth, beware the dead the dead the dead, their tongues are thick with winsome words.

It’s true, they do not mean to destroy you. It’s true, some of them mouth truths most healthful and nourishing. It’s true, a thicker hide might let you walk among them unscathed.

But if you love truth, beware. Those who love truth too well are always most vulnerable to doubt.

3.3.3

I am floating high on the crest of pain, admiring the spots and speckles at arm’s length. Nothing can touch me, nothing can touch me, up here where the sky is clear and the geese are outlined so crisp and the dead the dead the dead are silent.

How do I make you understand, it’s like strong drink, it’s like success.

How do I make you understand how easy it is

And how high I float, above everything, untouchable, not powerful not weak, not happy nor sad, not boy nor girl, not wanted nor unwanted, a yellow balloon above the rooftops. Sometimes I think about loneliness, but I can float above that, too.

3.3.3

when the world is so full of words, and your life is so short, how do you dare open your mouth?

3.3.3

that warm-weather devil jumps to life and tries to break out at the pores, reaching long fingers around teeth and staring through your eyes with his own.

They kept walking.

Sweet Airedale fumbled gamely and mumbled mainly touching his toes diligently. Diligentibus, leaving open the question of heorshe, toforofby I am interested it concerns me specially.

O pulchrae! O pulchri!

O honey-Latin dulcet ones, Vergil tilts his head to one side, marveling at the Greek. In the wings his Italian acolyte waits impatient, to tour the dead the dead the dead.

No need, Alighieri, the dead the dead the dead whisper hiss susurrate their peculiar preoccupation with my failures continually. Take a tour of my skull, sir. I think there are popes here.

Mother Mary cradles her son, and what good is a thing done decently and in good order? Yet the bread is the same, the wine is the same, the air and fire reach down on lightning fingers though no one knows for sure what path they take. That flash frightens the dead the dead the dead for five seconds of perfect sky. Their bones rattle and fade.

Who can discern this?

The footfalls of the elephants, that sound, disrupts the silence. Their hides are painted with bees. They fill the lawn with the smell of their dusty backs, they knock over the gnome and dance solemnly amongst the tall grass. Everyone watches from the safety of the long portico. Where are the prophet and the Marigold Woman? Does anyone know? I’m sorry, sir, they’re still out. Would you care to leave a message? Yes, I would. Withoureyesturnedinward howcanweseeGod? At the tone, sir.

This is the last dance, but the dead the dead the dead are intent on spoiling it. Their hissing disturbs the elephants. If someone–someone who is now sitting in the window-seat wrapped in a blanket–could walk onto the lawn and call halt, perhaps the elephants would discharge their duties and return to Carthage for the last time. But the window-seat and Carthage are both a million miles away, out with the stars but unable to sing with them, wheeling interminable cycles in the cold and the silence. Earth looks very small from here.

The elephants try to keep dancing, the bees on their sides wrinkle and ripple, the dead keep hissing, no one quite knows what to do.

Soon, someone must arrive. Perhaps it will be Mother Mary with a crowd of saints and abbas, and we will dance with them instead of the elephants. Until then, is there nothing to be done?

God only knows, sir.

There used to be a word here; we lost it in the swipe of careless fingers. What was the word? The gap in history cries out.

The angel beamed blessings on us from his dark kindly face. Over our dashes we watched him wheel our lady across the street. God’s kindness runs in crosswalks and gutters and strip malls cleverly concealed strip joints.

The prophet Elijah we invited for New Years’ Eve, but he didn’t come, not even John the Baptist. The abbas sat round the empty seat and murmured uneasily.

A dead black dragon, a rattling, an aching of the bones, the small bones in my hand try to push through my palms, the knuckles ache, there has been no emptiness for weeks. How long can the singing nerves withstand? Elijah has abandoned us. The abbas are at a loss. The nerves chatter drunkenly and the bones grind for want of a stilling.

The gap in history cries out.

The gap troubles me.

The gap

the gap

mind the gap

***

Scene: It is morning. Have we been here all night? I think we have, my loves my lo-ammis. The sun obtrudes himself like an evangelist who has forgotten his text, who cares, he winks positive thoughts off the bottles especially the broken ones. The prophet and the Marigold Woman stretch and grope for wakefulness. The sky is empty of cherubim, it always is but some days you notice the lack more.

Prophet: Whoof. I think I had a dream?

Marigold Woman: not very interested What kind? Tell you anything?

Prophet: No, not one of those. I don’t think. Who knows? Who knows anything?

Marigold Woman: Doesn’t matter, anyhow.

Prophet: rubs the eyes under the goggles, examines the Marigold Woman closely. You’ve been sitting too long, you’ve been compressing virtue too much. Let’s go before we dry out.

Marigold Woman: What’s the hurry?

Prophet: Let’s go, let’s go.

Marigold Woman: No.

The prophet, now standing, glares at her. She blinks at him and spiders her hands aimlessly. The prophet kicks at her foot.

Marigold Woman: No.

Nothing is done and nobody mends the gap.

The bubblings up of the queen’s fevered heart are like lemon-drops, rough on the tongue. They linger like the inner light of dead pilgrims, or the sundial made by the gallows tree, or the brass lacework on the egg she keeps in a glass case. But they do not last forever, and with so many anxious eyes, so many siphoning ears, who finds it strange that sometimes the words come thin? Like black paint cut with too much water.

SCENE: The Marigold Woman and the little prophet are halfway through the broken glass–or nearly halfway. There is a little bench here, and they sit side by side. It is dark; the holiness of it is enough to choke a body, and there is a promise in the air of foxes and owls, if you could but wait long enough. The prophet produces a pack of cigarettes, contemplates them, but does not remove one. The air is cold.

Marigold Woman: what do you mean, anyhow?

Prophet: i mean so many things I could scream, love.

Marigold Woman: i think about it still sometimes.

Prophet: i know.

Marigold Woman: i’m scared.

Prophet: i know.

Marigold Woman: i’m not strong.

Prophet: you’re a tiger-cub, sister, and i’m a chain of dandelions. what more do we need?

Marigold Woman: the closer we get, the less sense you make, you know that?

Prophet: and the closer we get, the more gorgeous everything becomes, you know THAT?

Marigold Woman: don’t get your hopes up too high, anyhow.

Prophet: you’re only right, sister. how wise you’ve become!

Marigold Woman: oh, shut up.

Scene: the window-seat, that lackadaisy boy with the angel face sitting on the floor, the cat tucked into himself on the cushions, a slight uneasy figure beside. The cicadas are crying the blues, the chipmunks are trading news in the tall grass. The sun turns the needles to yellow and blue.

Writer: what i’d like to know is, why can’t we go back to the swamp.

Cat: Have you asked the author ambassador?

Writer: no. she won’t talk to me, i don’t know why.

Cat: Mmm.

Writer: something’s wrong with her.

Cat: Wrapping her head around a licorice stick. Training her feet to a new dance. Looking for Oxi-Clean to cut the grease stains out of her ambitious heart. A million and one things.

Writer: well. that’s all very well for her. i’m bored. when are the prophet and the marigold woman coming home? why can’t we go back to the swamp?

Boy: So, uh, sweetheart, if you’re bored an’ all…

Cat: quietly. The elephants are coming.

There is a silence. Writer staring anxiously out the window, trying to discern dust clouds on the horizon from the stamp of lined feet. Cat licking the fur on its chest. Boy sulking.

Writer: i hate the elephants.

Cat: We bought the house for them, you know. They need the space.

Writer: i hate the elephants.

Cat: But wouldn’t you miss the swimming-pool?

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Elusive heart, why is the color of grace a white stone? I live under a death sentence and the bones in my hands jump, the nerves in my forearm snap, my skin is full of bees. I live under a death sentence and a little snail made of lead sits under my breastbone. I am surrounded by the detritus accrued by the living. Detach, divest, why must my coward flesh comfort itself with toys? Come, lift the cup, and in the fire of spring the winter garment of repentance fling!*

I live under a death sentence and all I can see are

bluelightsbluelightsbluelights

I am choked with detritus and can no longer move my hands. Where is God in the pain of jumping hands and the ache of a bile-filled heart?

My name is written on a white stone, but I live under a death sentence. My children are wisps of smoke, my desires are all eaten up with gall, my skin is full of bees. Bees, bees, bees.

The elephants are coming! The elephants never left!

Twilight laces itself around my aching fingers, the black trees against the sky are so many sacred poems, fivesevenfives without words. The insects sing belated vespers, paper stars dangle over the barklike rooftops. The clockwork scorpions hiss gently by the pool. How many small tables can we muster? As many as we need, sir. Shall the prophet sit at the foremost? Where do we put the queens of summer? Does Hannibal intend to join us? Shall we invite all the people we dislike the most? Are there enough forks? Enough eyeballs? Enough insincerity to go round?

God only knows, sir.

I sit under a death sentence and the party goes on.

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* The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, trans. Edward Fitzgerald

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