Balconette

It is a line we draw.

At certain moments, such as sunset in quarantine inside the pages of Clarice Lispector and before a sundown sandwiched between rain clouds (a strange layering of sky as grey, apricot, powder, blue, stone, orange and below it is you, on a balcony with the summer cherries) you realise the line between life and afterlife is so thin — a jump from a balcony, a charge through a window, a choice of pills, the pull of a lever, releasing the handrail, releasing feet.

If i were to meet God tonight how would I feel? How would I be? “Here is my heart, take it, let me pour into you, let me merge” —- it was the same whenever I went to her for comfort or stillness (often and always until long after I was old enough to sleep in my own bed).

He asked me the morning he caught the holy spirit himself - “do you think of Nikki as God?” - I nodded and the the lyrics of the gospel rang in our ears - god is always with me - “so then she is always with you” he said.

Mother, womb, a triangle.

I told you a secret, I materialized enmeshment, I slept in her bed most nights until I was 20 or so.