Walking out on the Lyric
Fiona Sze-Lorrain
When men take from me all the heat and light, I content myself
with echoes, sounds, and radio waves in every room up for sale inside
this body. What’s gone stretches each wall so terribly that when
I cough, mud bricks give up their secrets and poor decisions. One
of the corners keeps the song alive, another too wet for dust
or sprigs to rot gently. I manage. Each furniture piece makes its
long speech to accept my dual friendship: one from France,
the other to inherit an armoire. To obey an inner despot, I check
the doors, sweep the balcony, and reframe each picture with clouds
or perfect fruits as focus. For inspiration, I look out the windows.
I am inside each window, the window moves in me. Anything you see
from the outside—the garden, the hare, disposable bin, and wayfaring
tree—teaches you to live with used spaces. Touch pain by its rim:
under your bed, in the cellar. I am still here because of my dilemma.
In this scenario, a glass of water and a pill are two separate issues.
Look at you. The solitude. Even the cactus is softening each kill.