Summer 2013 • Vol. XXXV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2013 |

Othello Syndrome

Like a diver exploring the reefs of his own deepest mind suddenly sucked back to the surface, some nights I was yanked away from sleep, eel-touched, my body like a wire straightened by its own internal heat, those violent, otherworldly jolts deleting a part of me, the mind reset, so that I had to begin again that delicate inner surgery of dismantling the image of where she might be, and with whom. Most nights time was a weak, down-running water working to rub away the pictographs from an undiscovered cave, but at times I understood that it excited me to imagine another man gazing down through the inverted skylight of her face as she slowly opened to him the wonderment she all day kept blinded and hobbled inside of her. I was both erecting walls and knocking them away to enhance the view. So little we own of ourselves. I am not what I am, Iago says. And I know what he means. There's a monster in me, and I am the meat on which it feeds.

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