I was hoping the sea would roll through the patio doors,
and bring the end it always whispers about.
I wait for the downturn.
In various rooms : electronic piano music
recently played. Those empty strigine tones.
No weight.
Anyway, one end is not all.
I eat a wakame salad and watch the horizon,
which is nothing. A line that turns on and off.
My fingernails grow long and make my gums ache.
Out there, where things are real,
someone dives naked into the Gorge, alone
or with an audience. Their life is sharp,
and breath comes quickly. A seal watches with its murky eyes.
I remain in the house of expected pains, itchy, my skin turning blue.
Anne Moore
Texte publié dans le No 35. Encrages et recollages
First published in The Fiddlehead, no 293, fall 2022
Translated and reproduced with the author’s permission
