Obligato

 

Alerted to it, we tried our damnedest not to notice it.

A damp spot on the ceiling, growing in your shorts… one day, the bag dries up. The morning after the bones were picked, a mosquito’s obligato hovering far and near, then nearer and nearer, I could not, I could not swat away. Softly, absent-mindedly, fingering over a painful bunion. My dear absent father, years later, each new entry either revokes the previous sentence or dovetails into the provenance of silent tributaries. A chipped comma cuts into foot. The flush doesn’t work. The drip. The drip. Unhooked, soon all become submerged as humid afternoons… where and what are you? A low-wattage whirring though the lights have been switched off permanently. The screen is black and non-referential. To this spot, all sentient creatures have come for supplication. Some cock an itchy ear. A few, no longer thirsty, will lie down for good. I understand and I wish to continue. Wade into this, dip your head and open your eyes