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| Poemission |
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| Inside his urban hut, the writer lies racked in feverish torment as a fan turns above his bed. Nurse enters and soothes his brow. Later, by light of day, she feeds him jam and oranges, and he relishes the meal, though still staring vacantly somewhat as he rows up the jungle stream, guided by the driving fever, the drain hole conviction, the last leg of the marathon downslide. There sparkled the heavens, but the beast could not believe in his own humanity. Floating past the ancient stump defiance, his craft enters the calm squall, and is dashed appreciatively upon the stern rocks of illusion. The native dogs run along the shoreline waiting for the body. Nurse leads him to the writing device, and he collapses into work. The words on the page reflect his image on the water, grasping for something to hold on to while he is sucked into the whirlpool; he could pull himself out by one stout branch, but those that break off in his hands leave him with distrust of the others. The birds chatter as he circles with the current. Nurse gives him a spoonful of honey and kneads the taut muscles of his shoulders and back, but only the flesh is stirred. She leads him down paths both known and frightening, plucking odd chords to yield inspiring resonance, but he can't decide the sounds he wants -- Polynesian or Sufi? At his desk he pours from the decanter, but there is no ice, and the taste reminds him of those squalid waters which tired of him. Once beached, he knew the trouble with the island paradise is that the horizon holds a glimmer of another isle, a nondescript blur of rock that promises anything different. Shall we cut down our golden palms, he muses, and construct a raft to forge the uncertainty, or shall we paint a portrait of it to hang in our comfortable caves? The berries are good here, but one can hear the distant lowing of fatted beef and the splashing of succulent fish. He would build a raft, but the sail can't be trusted. Nurse holds him before the fire, yet his thoughts twist with the kindling. She tells him a story from her formative years, and he plays out her memory in the flames. Behind the black shower curtain, she reads poetry by Poe, Alice in Wonderland, The Teachings of Don Juan, but he already knew how to dream. By the duck pond she recites Indian folk tales, but he could only hear the lapping of the tiny waves. |