Jeanne has a husband, somewhere, in an insane asylum. She thinks of her grandmother,
who had strawberry-colored hair until the day she died. The inside of
strawberries. She was seventy-eight.
Her husband has been there, amongst the schizophrenics,
for thirty-four months. They were married just over three years ago. She
does not visit him. She has never visited him.
On the stream where she lives, there are fishermen wading
across grass to get to the place, under the rock outcropping, where the
fish will bite. She does not mow the lawn. She cut a path in it with garden
shears and sprained her left wrist. She has a delicate bone structure
and the shears, still on the bank of the stream, were still rusting the
last time she went to look. There was one fisherman under the rock when
she went. She nodded at him. He scratched his throat. The path she cut
did not run, directly or otherwise, from her cabin to the stream. It cut
a horizontal line across the clearing between stream and cabin, but began,
ended, nowhere in particular.
The marriage was annulled. There is no legal record of
it. Simply that she got away doesn't mean it didn't happen. She plants
flowers, in this summer, along one side of the cabin. The side away from
the road. This is the shady side, and nothing grows, save some wild strawberry
patches which she didn't plant. It's too shady for the plants to produce
strawberries any larger than green peas.
She would like to visit her husband, but not the other
schizophrenics. She would wash the white walls of his room for him. She
does not return his letters. She stands outside this winter when it snows
and thinks of her grandmother, how snow would look on the interior of
a strawberry. This grandmother used to harvest tomatoes, which doesn't
seem right, seems an utterly hopeless act, a form of depravity.
five of her words and their definitions
like the white undersides of shafts of rosemary which are gone as dust,
or logically, green forearms reclined in want. longing for things not
yet gone or dust. for green, for black, tea sprouting from fishlike underbellies
of rosemary sprigs still after growing.
license plate from the unexisting or unhaloing car. lying in bed with
white unstriped sheets with his hair against a white on white pillow,
his bald spot on the very verge of shivering against dampening air. but
it's not quite there, the baldness or broken inner part, no sense of emotion,
so then the license because she wants the bald spot shivering.
she sees. it is sound form the anthology of all chinese literature. also
german, hence white sound. but if fried sounds and beams of light. pure
anger from a bishop. or plants taken out of pots and placed into ground
inthe desert. no snakes in this desert. only mites too small to chase
off with blue. so mites can go unseen wherever they please. and mice.
there are mice here. the antithesis of orange.
a feeling abandoned for sound. a slack-eyed askance. your voice askew,
as heard by her. if heard by him who has a baldness near to shivering,
then better termed tomato. see definitions for tomato.
with one e, then see her definition. if without, then read what
he says about stripes of white on grey underneath an underside. it is
the same thing.