Work Text:
Act I: Jazz
Split a fall in half; limp lungs that have grown so tired of air contemplate deep sleep. For a blissful moment—short-lived, of course, unlike this battle—the thought of a mossy bed comforts her sprained wings, and the exhausted mind follows, soothed with far too much ease and such meagre consciousness. Dry-swallowing a spasm, lungs fight to seize themselves awake in erratic heaves—for if they do not, she will be stripped of her final breath, and no one will hear
*Fire, fire!*
over the spiralling hearth of feathers. To us, this is but the screech of a gull. Now, then: the screech of a gull guts salty air. The ghost of its persecutor continues to pursue.
…Like the wind’s scattered insides, we move on in our out-of-body experience. After all, winding paths must lead to the rockiest, proudest peaks, no? Why else are mountains scaled? Passion is simply the hard-earned aftermath; after maths, come solutions; the lovechild of solvent and solute—one always dies a fizzle.
…
Shame.
“Shame is not on you, child. It is with the unrepentant,” notice how shame is not *on* me. He acknowledges shame is *with* me; I appreciate that. I do not appreciate, however, the constant reading of my person—it is quite disrespectful. Does it ever mention flesh being paper? I think not. Let my grass speak for itself.
“If they repent,” see? The grass is speaking, unlike a book, which cannot ask “does shame fall back onto me?”
I should imagine shame as a ball game. Flinch, and you get to carry shame until the striker reclaims it and you are left with nothing—congratulations, your grief has expired! You are free to go; go, go knock a soldier down and toss aside his shield, his sword, then melt his armour. Come back with his head when he reveals himself to be, indeed and unfortunately, a *she*. Come back, but come back with the maiden’s head on a silver platter. *Then* we may play ball.
For now, we may only chat. Apologies! The rules are complex. He knows this, sure, and he disappoints again by knowing exactly what play to make.
“No.”
Flawless delivery. Perfect timing. Truly, who am I to expect the unexpected? I have learnt that an angel in motion stays in motion. Even under stillness, it is perpetual—with the solid weight of this ball I am bound to fall behind forever.
“Please,” there is no better time to beg than now.
“*Please!*”
The chain snaps along, a little faster, but to no avail at all. Consistent with nature, be it human or steel—the ball grows sleepy and stops its sluggish, reluctant roll entirely, as his halo blurs alabaster ahead. I am so, so sick of following him; he leads, and I am led into believing that I may never catch up. But I have, I *am*; through weeds, through sand, through beached clams and drift wood and lonely fires I have crawled—I have knelt oysters apart; my hands and knees are pearlescent blood dust!
“It won’t—”
“ —budge!”
Move. *Move!* Move, you wretched thing—move, the grit in my teeth, the knot in my spine; move, or die with me.
“Please, I can’t—” Tears are heavy too; how is it that when I shed them, the load in no way lightens?
Do what you have to, fair messenger, but at least speak to me—give me something to dance to! I’ll dance as you sail on, good vessel, so let there be the swing of a bass on this sinking ship I’m anchored to. I’ll scat for you, even—here, here you go—
“Do not, ” ba-dum ba-dee ba-doo. “Forsake me!”
…There.
Is it not misty enough on this hill for jazz? Clearly I’ve brought the fog, the smoke, the mirrors and the screens; can you not see how the ball—brilliant virtuoso, it—snores fugal iron into my achilles tendon? Hear for what comes out, sir. Listen closely, for I cannot draw nearer with my feet that are bound, but your feet are bound to recognise this tune: *Take five.* Why not, sweet angel? Halt—
and take five.
Take five, like my broken ankles, take five like my spherical soloist—hush, *hush*—it is napping! Or is that the reason you are silent? Have I understood you? Are you so loving, that the possibility of waking my rotund parasite pains you into absolute indifference? Tell me why it is this way: a steel ball, you will pity, you risk your reputation to preserve its drowsiness—yet you leave its leashed pet to rot. Your omnibenevolence is faulty! Have it repaired, and while you’re at it, you must fix your eyes too—for you seem to view me as dirt around a lobster’s exoskeletal anus. Am I such an embarrassment, that even in abandon, I am still ranked last? Expel me, if so! Like crustacean faeces into the ocean, back into soulful waters I plunge. I’m flushed, I am; breathless and flushed, and well acquainted with shame—take five, coach, practice is over! Ball is at half-court and it is *time*—
“Anything but this brawl, divine brother! I do not want a new name; all I want—is to pass.”
…
Is that too much to ask?
The song has ended, the bar has closed. I have given you my all, and it was not enough. When will it ever be bedtime for a nightingale in her blues, I wonder?
“Let me *pass*.”
Look—
into my cracking ribs, oh great servant. See how the flame within warps. Feel my resolve weep in desolation. Pet it, if you dare; touch the sick and needy.
“*Please*,”
I can only lie, and pray for my pillow to be green pastures.
“*I can no longer follow.*”
…
Supine, stagnant, canopied by balding fields—the ball and I are one. Shame has made love to me; greet my carcass, our firstborn. She is still young, but for me, it is too late. Let me rest and dream—I have dreams, you know.
You know, because you know it all.
…
I have dreams, then. Dreams that involve you taking five of my fingers in your snowy palm and pulling me along. A shell of a person is light enough to be tugged, surely? So please bring this empty temple with you, mister. Drag me to the silver clouds. Teach me improv with a lyre. Please, beseech me—have it rain, and ease my ill fire before I—
“*Stand, child.*”
—burn.
…
Oh. Did you—
Am I—
“Stand.”
You say. And—the ball, it…stirs. A yawn softens its infinite edge. Do you behold this? It *moves*. God is real. God is good. God is—
God is the power by which I now stand. I stand, on stone and conviction; on the raw soles of my naked feet I am made an upright creature. I stand, meeting the eyes of His loyal servant—warmer, now; deeper as he approaches, turns, and for a second I anticipate the grand finale. He’ll walk away. He’ll return to the skies. He’ll do everything but kneel and announce, with little ceremony,
“The last stretch is long. Lay your head against this shoulder; let the prairie breeze wake you then.”
…
It is you, *Lord.* Faithful Father of mine. Your smile disperses all evil.
“*Thank you.*”
I cling myself to sleep,
and dream of drooling into an angel’s angular light.