{ SHE THOUGHT IT WAS THE ATMOSPHERE }

did you hear that? duchess says. i should turn the lights off. she pulls herself up on her toes, hoping to catch sight of a passing ship. she has memorized the path across the water. hours pass without a sighting. i left something in the city, she says, the key already warm in her hand.

the cat collapses near the door.

darling ought to be here but she is down by the water, pulling an egg out of the tide. when the lights in the house go out darling turns to look, rocking on her heels. the dark house is awfully familiar. darling sorts through her specimens, thrusts the smallest egg beneath the sand. the trees close as she moves forward, a knot of pine and aspen.

a parcel of eggs tucked under her arm, a bird persuaded to stop in the limbs arrayed above her. darling is almost near the end; the doors of the house locked against her. she won’t turn around. this is how it might have ended: her breath blooming across the glass, the pane shattered. a way to keep warm, a way to get back inside. darling is persuaded to continue. she races along unknown floors, water receding behind her. somewhere past the trees, the sea stretches, unwrapping a gauze over the sand. follow the wind, duchess says, taking darling’s basket, taking darling’s hand. another drop of water slips down the wall, curdles in the cat’s fur. duchess laughs, grasps the banister: she will not leave the house alone.

{ THE TIME HAS COME }

darling keeps her tongue out of sight, nowhere near the beach. her tongue chasing a creature deep into her throat. a thimbleful of small stones won’t last long: she throws them at the window, hoping duchess will look out. over the waves, a bird drifts, the water turning inside out. darling’s hair rests like a coiled rope on the back of her neck. the brim of her straw hat pushed off her face, the sun hanging up the clouds. the sea lies still and sudden.

i am present at the scene. i take the fallen stones and arrange them side by side. the birds gossip in the trees and i cover my mouth in case of a surge. i am still seeing holes everywhere. i am not willing to go all the way down to the water. i watch darling and i wish that she could see. in the house above us, duchess secures the door by slipping a stick into the latch.

the house groaning and creaking.

darling stretches out on the beach, feeling nothing but the purling of the water past her body. the afternoon passes quietly, consumed by her slow and even breathes.

.
the doors are open.

thou is thou. done is done. time is time. fear is fear. look and speak blood. look and all’s death. look and tell thy deed: you are you.

I am often buried; I will die again. are you a wife? they said. oh, oh, oh!
this account offends. I extend my hand, my knife…

they said lady, come, there’s knocking within.
they said, thy grooms hath come; attend them. there are no others. shalt thy hands regard?
often nature’s fatal, ’tis shame.

what, in the house?
what is to be done?
I make my dearest daggers. I pray thy hand shalt become a tongue, I pray
keep thy king ignorant. I stop
the water with a snare. will I, smiling, mock death?
I keep alone with nature–

the doors open and

I am afraid. I have resembled my husband. I have dared
to say, dark business.
to cry, hold, hold!
to lay my knife: red milk, white nightgown. where am I now?
this little wife has so much blood in her.

I have given, I would: my shame.
I have sworn
I heard the scream and cry,
I am afraid, my dagger’s ready,

the doors, unguarded–I hear a knocking;
my hands speak, destroy my doubtful joy.

I have a purpose: the sleeping pictures seem
devils; their eyes open as I pass.
this is not often home: here’s the blood.

come: I must leave
this is the eye
this is the tongue
this is the word, my heart.

..

I will wash my face. come, this is the bed.
where am I now? what, will I never sleep? much is done.
one little time, one pale grave, one open gate and
I will not tell. my nightgown undone. no more,
my old need, to tell. yes, come to bed. this is still sweet.

…

am I woman, wife?
the fire grows unmann’d;
winter’s spoils look well,
they are often thus. I will again

extend my hand: my passion
’tis proper stuff, my worthy dagger

starts at a look, a flaw. I lack the time
to pray, to order the house: it grows worse
and worse.

I will go at once, question
the night, send to him the morning.

….

feast without welcome:
gentle thoughts make doubtful friends.
this house is given to destruction,
this bare bed, this sleek lady’s no king.
here I seat a gap, making

things welcome, making words fit

using my leisure to destroy this remedy
indeed it will be drugg’d
it must be vouch’d best–
I am bare without it,
and have been from my fear.
I will not give the heart its
home.

…..

I must speak, trumpet

these daggers, unbecoming deeds
together with white nightgowns. I have forgotten

my shame, my sorry devil, my hideous

childhood, deeply lodged. must these grooms give blood?
the watchers have two little eyes; they call my deeds
great

they wash my hands. hark, hear my call:
I must speak,the house awaked, the doors are open.

.

I just stopped waking.
lately I’ve been confused. I want to know–please
leave the gate open, let me go
back to bed. this is the pattern: I know about that,
I know it is my fault, that I’m not asleep.

..

indifferent distance, father husband…
it is worse to want, to talk about things that
hurt
whole subjects suddenly terrible–the dead
child.
the clever word I use to reply: no. i see things
that seemed dead come alive, I see
this subject,
it hurts like hell.
the word I use I know, I understand.

…

the path rots, the mud slowly
comes I am afraid the birds might see
everything and know. yes i lie
and i am burning.
it is easy to hear the water,
the grass and the passing dark.

what do I want to do? the ferns are thick,
the bridge in its usual place, my strange
love for the wood
almost definite.

I have been hiding and I am still sorry.

….

look, these dreams are dying.

i thought of the trees burning and i stopped.

i became afraid
i became so damn old

i wanted to lie down, to stop
to stop writing, to drift, falling
falling and how happy i am

these words won’t last; i only have to produce one single
thing, something beautiful.

i might make something hideous.

now i can stop where i couldn’t stop
before.

…..

I discover I must start.

my weird sisters know; they control
the storm, maybe the day i forgot and
nature wanted out.

they know the kind: hair and thighs

and won’t leave crying, scheming sisters. they hold
the causes, the human material: a hail
of teeth
what’s this? breasts and eyes, writhing bodies

maybe someone will die, maybe my sisters are beggars, bastards
fucking books they know

none, something I expected, women cured of their own
bodies. I have it; can’t stand it; it hurts.

it is not just nature
it is distant years
the husband burning the woods thinking of the
body and the tree: they go together
well, these women

these dead sounds, false
love and walking through the dying,
thinking yes please
not a benign project to forget, to
keep writing to
wake the summer trees

dead in their legs

the tall deer patient with time

when we we ever go home? shouldn’t we
go on?

{ CONFOUND, ADORE, REPEAT }

relics, the smooth nub of stumps caressed. the fossils of a thousand hands marked out by a depression. a cupful of thumbtacks strewn across the path — the way impeded dangerous, inaccessible. she must find another. fill her pockets with wildflowers, wood chips. pull the cord hanging from her mouth, eyes popping open, leg lifting at the knee.

the basin brim exceeded: i am put out. caught by the open door, back to the wall, a mess of hair like bloodworms littering the floor. i had been cutting; i snap, close the cuticle. snakes writhing on the surface, in water or liquid — an imprudent submersion. nestful, fistful, slithering and stuck: wads of knots, split ends, curlicues spliced to soap scum, salt water, steam.

darling pulls the sheet taut, tucks the corners under the mattress, thumping the center of the bed with a tightly balled fist. she brushes away bits with the blade of her firm hand, and lays the triton carefully in the center. mottled, a coil of pink flesh turned inside out, calcified. in its pit, the voice of things: the waves and the forests. she finds it unpleasant. she lifts the shell and shakes it a little, struck by the barrel of red hair released from its inner depths.

the house gravitates around the stairway, holds it like a mouthful. the stairs rise, unimpeded, and stop somewhere at the apex of a light, a halo, a carefully concealed door. a door blown out, scraped off, the form withering, a suffocated embryo. this is called moving, the steady ascent immersing the body in a gradual discarding of shadow.

darling’s footsteps disturb forward facing flowers. silence soaks through trees, her dress pied with strange birds, flashing over. the sky will clear tomorrow; the cat will stand in the garden, lazily swishing his tail. she is contained; containing - her footsteps trim the path. there should not be a fish this far from the shore. a fish gasping in the bramble.

darling will put this key back into the water. she has to be able to listen, to find out what she’s running from.

difficult to see what is coming. darling’d forgotten about the door. the door ought to be visible, now; surfacing on the deep green of the surging trees. darling, almost in tears. the day she became lost. she looks round and calls repeatedly, thinking it might be here, but she sees nothing. the trees, not moving; miles of rough darkness. she’s looked here, she’s looked there: she sees the door when she is asleep. she walks without finding a solution.

darling crouches with her arms wrapped around her knees. she counts one, two, three. there are lights in the wood; there are sirens and alarms. she tears a hole in the earth and spits, pines needles wreathed in tinsel. i don’t know where it is, she says. she looks to see if she is followed. no door opens, and she stands. the volume of her dress would make it impossible to hide: she stands, out.

she hears a foot behind her. closer, closer. a girl in trouble is often humble, pushing forward with her head down, observing the quick beat of her own shoes on the illuminated path. a key hidden in her pocket, a door erased by a pulse, a hammering coupled with a kind of calm. she will abandon this forest, throw the key into the ocean, forget she ever had it.

the red bricks tower, shaking out a black sheet, sweeping out the sky. a fat bead of water slips from a sleeve drifting along the line, a gob of spit staining the worn porch. darling waits, perched at the bottom of the steps, her eyes shifting, assembling the distance into a ball of twine. in the air, a roar: the sea recoils its long, white neck.

train tracks sway above flat, blistered grass. darling totters in her kitten heels, nudging aside stray coal, black rabbits thumping in the weeds. rabbits chewing on canceled stamps, mouths gummed with glue. darling’s hands swing, palms dry and pockets empty. the sea extends its reach, retrieving sheets of sand.

the weeds have reached the porch, strangling the steps: a mass a brambles; a mess of foxtails, chamomile, mint. duchess pauses, lifting her white dress to her knees. she will not wander past this point. the house encloses: duchess with her skirt, her hands behind her back, fingers locked, darling posing beside the rose bush. this banister: a table leg. this window frame: a dresser drawer. this thin white dress: a sugar sack. the sea unraveling a key, a ring.

in the little cove down by the water, wide open mouths blare nests of bees. the sting, they sing: silk sheets doused with powder.

cake crumbs scatter in the long grass, little remnants of rust dropped from the eaves. a frayed and tattered aperture, a hole where a fox might fix a hiding place, a crow call out the gleaming dark. the door hangs open, framing her absent form at the window, hair stirred by an unsettled breeze. a shadows lifts out of the water and passes, its black eye tracking movements in the house.

{ RAVING BEAUTY }

my eye slips open when i stand. the lashes stiff, speckled by crumbling ink. the eye holds. i tilt, and the lid crashes to my cheek, spewing blue dust. i see nothing; standing still so i won’t be caught. i keep my mouth half open, my tongue of felt. in my belly, a clatter, a missing key. the best place to keep it, to keep it away. i will not speak, except through her. she might lift my arm, allow my look to fasten on some other distance. i saw nothing there: more hallways, doors, more darkness in a knot. i wait to touch the bottom, to move when she is not looking: when my passage is not expected. i will fill my hollow arms and legs with shells and stones, track sand along every doorway. for awhile, she will not notice. she will walk past, pushing my head down with her hand.

{ WARY OF CROSSING }

don’t you ever, ever, says duchess, and the devil. i will do it myself, says duchess, pulling out a stitch.

darling looks out the window. she ought not. darling looks at the velvet flocked walls. touching them brings her back where she started: her fingers flitting over the pattern, reading an inscription, a kind of variety burdened by busy tasks. she looks at duchess through the wide open door: duchess drawing the chandelier towards her with a hook, lighting each candle. her restless aching, pacing — her need to fill the house with objects past her ability.

i have things i have to do, says duchess. darling flattens herself against the wall to let duchess pass. candlelight swarming all over them.

darling turns to face the wall, the window past her drenched with rain. duchess pauses and observes the shape of the garden, the forest in the distance huddled round the house. her breath swells across the glass and she lifts her hand to write a word in swiftly clearing mist. duchess says, does it disturb you?, wiping her hand to cancel out the worst. darling moves, taking duchess by the elbow and spinning her so the trees beyond blur them into one white body, one white dress blown out, the dark hallway sinking, flames shuddering, spitting out wax. duchess wobbling in darling’s arms, her tongue limp: the worst place. the woods swollen, the birds torn and small and stained and cruel.

nothing is wrong, says duchess.
what is supposed to happen in the woods? says darling.

i arrive at the house on the path through the the neatly gathered trees. a thin cloud drapes the mouth, over the door. the closer i get, the more simply i see them, locked together, hands and knees entwined.

{ BACK WHERE SHE STARTED }

the sea fallen silent. circling the the tide, crouching in the sand, plunging her hand down, her fingers outspread, feeling for the key. darling sorts the stones, ordering them from smallest to largest, each one smooth, unsettling. her lips move, counting; her hands move with awful familiarity through the sand, sifting, her throat parched, her tongue holding onto the number. she is certain this is the spot. she glances towards the house and asks it to wait, wait a bit longer. she needs more time; the sea waves, longing to split its coil. where is my key, says darling, moving aside the stones. the cat stands at the cliff’s edge, watching her progress: these pale, inky graves filling with water. the sea winds a lace dress. there is something here with her, watching. if she grasps the key in her fist it will withdraw. the key will be sent back. the sea must be attended to, must be shut. she rises and kneels again. darling draws back her sleeves, sweeps the sand aside. water seeps from below,

keys bursting from the ground like flowers.

hold still, darling. a surge: her long dress carried by a wave. she writhes, she spells out the hour: two voices, and the sea’s cold reply. hold still, darling.

her shadow does not bend. how did she happen to come by this key? she must have buried it, at first.

{ ALREADY IN HER HAND }

darling wasn’t sure where she got the earrings. she thought of duchess, cupping golden bells in her palm, caressing the pinked seam of the cat’s flesh: cause to mourn. afterbirth in a mason jar and the feeling that she was unable to look. splitting open a lemon and dropping the halves into a teacup. the ritual of crossing the forest, the beach, leaving the house behind. duchess moving away with a thump in her gut.

the silenced ring. the hen in the house with a hole in its throat, white feathers spilling, the plump body deflating. darling sat in the moonlight gazing down at the hem of her skirt, thinking of beasts in the basement; the yawning maw of the furnace, the crusted eye of a sealed box. stroking her hair and thinking of water babbling in the faucet, thinking of you. sometimes she startled, tearing her earrings from the lobes, then blood pulling her, yanked towards the laundry hanging from the line, white sleeves waving – sails filled by gusts of air.

darling stands and knocks the heel of her boot against the chair leg, shaking off the mud.

she had spoken to someone she didn’t know. someone standing in the corridor, sweat staining the parts of their clothing close to skin. teeth gleaming silver, a neat row of stones. somehow it was embarrassing; darling’d suddenly stepped back. there was no one there. she felt she wasn’t really moving, guided like a thread. she closed her eyes to cover her mistake, lifting her hands to restrain the earrings.

no effort to make it real: moths speaking in the attic, hushed over shattered silk. moths straining in the air. someone pounding beyond the wall. darling hurries towards the parlor, gliding down the stairs — on her breast, the imprint of a mouth she can’t identify.

today she is certain she is closer to the last room, the one she is looking for.