I never spoke to her again.
It was all telegraphy. The man
at the Marconi station knew me better
than I knew myself. The seagulls
didn’t know anything
except that I was distracted
at bright hours by dash
and dot, liable to leave my sandwich.
My memory replaced her
voice with click and rattle. As for mine,
it had been years since that mattered.
It was all telegraphy. The man
at the Marconi station knew me better
than I knew myself. The seagulls
didn’t know anything
except that I was distracted
at bright hours by dash
and dot, liable to leave my sandwich.
My memory replaced her
voice with click and rattle. As for mine,
it had been years since that mattered.
She never touched me again,
obviously. My torso swelled to forget
handprints, stomach eclipsing breasts when I lay down.
There weren’t any mirrors and the sea
was never still. I imagined I looked
like hills, which I hadn’t seen in ages, but without
signalling towers on my peaks.
Who knew that seabirds
liked ritual? They seemed relieved
to clasp feet to rails. They had
their own corner with feathers and bird shit. I
never touched it,
just let it wash off with storms.
I never got tired of storms. Nor did I ever ask gulls
how they found their way back after,
assuming they knew things I didn’t.
Still, telegrams. They covered one whole
wall. I resupplied
at first by tugboat, but by that time I didn’t need it;
it was no trouble to translate sound to word.
