The venom is in the closet, where I tuck my head in the day, praying for a door to Narnia. What is noxious is the emptiness, the broad belly in which I can no longer close myself. And when I close the door, the simple white, a reflection of me and me alone. I believe it is there in the wardrobe, no land of lions but one of less fickle fairies that can dutifully dust alive.
When I sit and sweat below the earth's surface, drink wine in the revelry that I should embrace, I stand outside of myself; I shoulder the warmth of the evening, I whisper in the face of the girl I know best. It is not that I believe--there is a very obvious sentiment in the name of Never never land; it is just that while there is very much beauty in possibility, there is ecstasy only in what cannot be, breed, breathe. Impossibility is artful, an aged fountain we drown searching for.
So too can I drown my days when I watch the wardrobe, push up against the cement of walls that I hope will fall beneath my fingers, melting Dali clocks weeping on my hands. So too can I hope that whatever is in the wardobe, or in the skies, does not live only within me--that dollhouse version is too small to embrace. And that is all I am looking for in a sea of clothes, striped silk and always argyle. I am looking for his mane, peppered beard; the man more than the spirit that I have been promised will remain.
