The Origin of the Ink, #147

Wide awake, he would sketch
from the shadows on the wood
panelling, from the knots
like constellations, draw
a unique reality, distinct
to each night.
But once in a while
a recurring shape
would hide in the walls,
a crack or a ring
in the wood would draw
the face of a woman,
fast asleep and unmoving.
She would visit when his mind
was racing, when no amount
of exhaustion or hot cocoa
could calm the voices,
quiet, cold and unending.
In school he would beg
for art class, to attempt
a sketch, ask the teacher
about noses, keep a pad
of paper beside his bed
and when she arrived,
tried to get it right.
Her sad fastened eyes.
In the summer he imagined
her on vacation, away
in some exotic place.
He could not fault her.
The sun was strong
and good and warming
to the skin.
His hair, by fall,
was nearly blond.
On cold nights,
with the window cut
and the moon above,
he could see her breath
mingle with his. Sheets
and blankets tugged up
to his chin, tucked in
under his shoulders,
his words would float
tenderly on the specks
of dust between them,
brush against her
soft cheeks and seek
out her tin ear.

Trapped beneath sheets
pulled like a straight jacket,
hands at his side
or buried in the crux
of a belly, the blankets
jerked to a taut, flat surface
leaving room to do little
more than breathe. How
he wanted to sleep,
longed to sleep, hoped
to ascend the stare
of his conscious mind
and nestle into the rest
that comes only
to the peaceful
or the heedless, to fall
into the blind dreams
of the simple, the storyteller
who suggests you can fly,
move through walls,
be chased by a monster
and that you could turn
and ask it a disarming question.
If the dreams would come
he could escape, make
his way back to a place
where the images
made sense, where
the flashes of light
would calm themselves
into a vision. And yet,
all he had were these walls,
cracks and patterns
that become concrete,
that settled themselves
into the folds of the mind
and reached back
to complete a companion.
Instead of sleep he created
her, gave her face
and mane, asked her
to keep his secrets
and most of all, to stay
asleep. His eyes heavy
and legs dense like lead
that held him tied
to these grey walls, this
grey planet, to this body
meant only for the living.

When they found her body,
tied down and bloody,
there were no makings
to indicate what had occurred,
no tools nor any scars
to explain the bloody sheet
and why
the splattered walls,
no way for nails
on her hands
to reach out
to the arms or curl back
on themselves,
no knife or pen to jot down
the origin of the ink.
They did not find
the face in the wall,
the wide awake face
with his hair cropped
and framed.
They could not see
in the stare, the cold face
that haunted that rose
back up from the grave,
who would come
again tonight.
The window was ajar.
A cold night which knew
no bounds entered quietly,
on legs without feet.
It floated in unconcerned
for the cops
and the coroner,
all who were listening.
They could not smell
the dissipating mist,
like a breath that hovered
and exited through the window.
She lay simply
quiet and dead,
a thin sheen of sweat
and blood across her body,
as if a hand had stretched
across and massaged
its moist fingers
evenly over every bit of her,
as if his stare
showered her, held close
her cold eyes.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s