Two
Dorothee Lang
Spring 2010
(1)
Spring 2010
(1)
A distant place. A place that leaves no memories. I am there, now, again, in the middle of the night, while the moon squares Libra in another matterless circle.
There are wooden huts. Trees, moving. There’s a man, sitting next to a dark trunk, while I stand there, holding the fingers of my left hand in my right hand.
There are only three remaining. Two have been cut off. They are placed on a silver tray now, black fingers with white figures on their surface. The nails aren’t broken, my hand isn’t hurting.
(2)
Everything is in its place, exactly where it is meant to be. What’s left are two questions.
I ask the first, without words, omitting the question mark.
The man stands up, to catch the answer, eventually.
credit: Sarah Ahmad