Spring 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 2 New Voices |

Eidola

Everything unreal is alike. A flying turtle, a flying wife. Whatever her needs were, unreal, alike, extremes that touch (the high, the low, the sickening and burgeoning of twilight), were those of the plague-birds, preying on mice; whatever their needs were, conceit, caprice, to turn to drink or stand up straight, extremes that touch, were hers; the same. And whether she closed her eyes, as she entered the nebulous fetch, or extended her wild neck (because something inside it was bright, so bright it needed a cover), is whether they sought the end as they charged the deadly water, or gloried in their liberty, in maxima, Norwegian mice---whatever she had to do, it must have been in raging to leave her brood. To leave her eggs unburied with a sideways look, see them in the jewelweed, clean with moon, blackening with absence, anonymous, not true.

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