Dear still unforeseen,


I am so exhausted as I write this. I have been striving ceaselessly. I am not even sure what I am attempting to lure from within you anymore. I have been dreaming

of being taken

to a place where I can unconditionally lay. Neither entirely alive nor entirely deceased. There to inhabit divination of ways for decay to be received as unconditionally sweet. Black

calla lilies with linen petals glued to them

add density to darkness. I always thought of heavenly masses not

as light but as gelatinous, soft chunks of viscous aphotic presence. Relief

from traditional light. I know

I have not written in a while. The last set of letters were subsumed in that fire. Do you remember? The one that spread so rapidly? The burning that was wet? The foamy heat that ravaged the whole hillside at once. By temperature and by hiss. By ash and by sweat. It has taken concentration for me to recover from that loss. To respond to my losses

by coil.





Dear still unforeseen,


I offer you a pledge brought to you on the level of corpuscle. I think you might understand this best by motility and pixilation. Lurch and jolt along a camber, lingering. Is a promise of sacristy after communion with an apparition of you

solace?

How it was not until I bound myself to your stature that I began to see you. To feel you in me. As flecks and shards. As the undersides of a mood.





Dear still unforeseen,


Upon waking I broke the head of a concrete angel. In it I planned to store ink-wrought parchments. Small syllabic loops. I imagined that I was putting images back into the third eye, and these parchments would be record of what accumulated: moth wings, the kernels of black sesame seeds, small gems, a hub of quaking whale blubber.





Dear still unforeseen,


On the day that my head was shaved, I told them to assemble a cross, but to leave it on the ground. I told them not to hoist it. Then I told them to tie me to the cross that had never before been forced upright. This made me an ephemeral figure so I did not have to be a human

woman

waiting

anymore. The moment I was secured to that acute and loaded shape, my genitals became apparent as physicalities to me. I am saying I

had to become an ephemeral figure in order for my physical genitals to have ever appeared to me as real to me.





Dear still unforeseen,


I wanted to burn

because of what I was bound by. Bound to. Not because I was being chagrined.





Dear still unforeseen,


I first found you in the place just prior to my retinas. Within

trilateral affiliations. Triangulations between hennaed hands, lips and bite. There is bite in my mudra. Mixing

the old, new and imagined shapes into

divergent symmetries. Rain falling both inside and outside of the glass. I court contraries in order to learn to couple with

you. I want to have converged with you as beauty's subjectiveness. Beauty is the expression of every altar. I feel like beauty is the only thing that could ever make me

gendered.





Dear still unforeseen,


Ways to turn the orbs inside out without having to break them.





Dear still unforeseen,


I recognize you in me by sound and image. I can feel your hands in your voice. I feel your various voices in my menstrual blood, speaking to me through sopping rouge. This morning I am bleeding in the meadow. Trying to read my clots. To perform translations by way of them, while on my knees. I see lace ladders in the red. I want these lace ladders to be edible to you. Our relation

is psychoacoustic. Tone turns the world. The world turning

grays my public hair. So long

without you in physical form means I am still without orgasm. I am a molecular

color moaning. Dusty. Rough. A necessary

linen-limen.