ASUNCIANow that you are gone, I am so lonely, even the angels lovemy sorrow as if it were their own. Sometimes I imagine them, recliningat beach resorts or walking the streets of their glass cities. Or descendingin silver jets to survey the miseries of earth they admire so. Only theycan see or hear me, now that I refuse to go out, now that any illuminationwould be gratefully accepted. But insights, I think, are only occupiedby angels for certain hours of the summer light. During the winter monthsthe dark ones sip absinthe and stick pins in our hearts. I feel them likea twinge or ache I can't resist. Just last night while drinking my thirdglass of cheap Chablis, I heard one whispering, I thought, the word, Asuncia.That's how they always speak, in single words with several or no meanings.Asuncia, I pondered, wondering if that were some city in Paraguay or acathedral in downtown Cleveland, the art of levitation, a flavor of liqueurlike anisette, or the name of a Spanish saint or poet like Vallejo. Yes,like Vallejo whose grief was a kind of sex all women would die for in asingle night. If only I could die like that. I picture him, Vallejo, myown Vallejo, his pale, nude soul enveloping me, gently at first, like amist. Asuncia, Asuncia, he whispers again and again until I rise abovethe clouds. Such bliss could blaze through eternity, I assure you. Youwho were good for a mere matter of minutes. from Why They Grow Wings, SilverfishPress, 2001
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