How Islands Become Islands

My friends told me that gargoyles can’t give consent, that they were made the way they are by their trauma. But after the ecstasy of sunset, the Aztec reds and oranges, burnt out and burdened, her shoulders cooled. I watched her masturbate herself, magnet-blue, her fingers dismantling the pyramids to build a cathedral.

She was consumed with having the body of a lock. After she took flight of stairs, no one believed me. They hadn’t seen the island become an island yet. They hadn’t seen her as a mobile, exiling the earth.

I have taught her dishwasher to sing the blues, all without soap in its mouth. Its mouth conveyed water. What remains on the unchipped china is a double mirror where only she can see me. I tune all the forks to a distant sound while I wait.

I believe she will nest, suspiring islets. I believe she wouldn’t sublet her apartment. Visited in the hospital by the angelic-sexless, the people were almost all decorative peonies. In her hand-stained hospital gown, she looked like her name meant ‘throat.’

Her apartment is the oldest friend I know.

As I collected belongings from her apartment for her eroded body, a communion of voices stopped me. Her cordate radiator radiated. Her refuse refused to be. A scatter of ants carried a sculpture of a man carved out of bread across the hardwood. She would denude in front of another. As I bleached the ants, they renewed themselves by looking into another chamber of the sun.

I visit her in the hospital as she visits me in waking.