Francine steps away from things altogether. His body lets in light, she writes, and I am larger than small matters. Francine laughs into her man’s blazer. I arrange his pants, she writes. His Paradise Lost, his socks, his outline on the mattress. Sometimes I see it burning so brightly. Francine remembers how they breakfast together. Pouring out of diners. Francine sleeps on chicken bones when alone, steps away from things altogether. I am larger than his body! She writes, I will drink his honey water.
Francine knows the difference between wheat and the lasting. The backgarden’s overgrown, she writes. Never a shadow in the hedge. Francine learns she still loves him, in many different tongues. Francine plants rows of figs to let in light. She writes, though mercy I cannot capture. Never a shadow in the hedge. Francine listens to stars when he comes, dragging a captured bed. Francine knows the difference between difficulties and regret.
Francine stones honey when she’s alone, then calls Saint Gabriel. My arms were called a gate, she writes, but no one stepped through. Someday the way to mercy will be by the sea. I learn to tongue regret by being everything. No one stepped through. Francine believes her heart will drink his honey water. Figs the burning of swallowed stone. His body a light for the dead on her mattress. I love everything attached to my hair, she writes, though my heart’s stuck in his branches.