Burden's birdcages swing in the memory's empty windows. I make myself lie down on the surface of the lake, where the heads of the chrysanthemums are floating like burnt golden globes. The lake house ripples in indigo: so many bedrooms, so many doorways. Somewhere he is practising his saxophone, adjusting the feather flock of his wings and blowing each low note of his heart. I feel the disturbances on the air, a crumpling, as though I were recovering from one of my tantrums.
Is he there in his gaudy get-ups? his lime and peacock waistcoats? His bruises of purple and canary yellow? Do you see him?
I am composing a novel for you. Yes. I thought that would make you jump. It is a work of incomparable complexity. Venetian in its dark waterways and arches. It staggers towards becoming robust. I am writing it all in my own blood.
I want to step away now. I'm ready to turn my back. If you care to, you can touch me.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele