I hear—oh no!
I feel once again
the footsteps on the ceiling.
I refuse to check what’s causing them—
lest it be last night all over again,
or a homeless person determined
to take over my home.
I’m getting ants in my nose again
I’m not going to tell anyone
because I don’t want them to worry
or take it as an excuse
to stop
leaving me
alone
and then the ants
biting into my flesh
always reddened
by a surge of shame
will multiply
I let them wander
let them devour the corpses
left in the cave
that first one
that shelters a goddess
abandoned
ancient
like all those things
sacred
cast aside
piled up
deep inside the nose
between the two eyes
That's also
where the origins of the tears
and the cobwebs lie
The first time I heard the footsteps,
I thought,
“It's Death”—
the Great One,
a female mandorla,
devoid of all grace.
I soon realized that wasn't the case,
because the Great One
suddenly took up residence
beside my bed,
as if she had always been there.
and yet,
with it standing straight there,
you could hear footsteps
up above
on the ceiling
or on the top of my head
who knows
Sometimes I feel that the persistence,
the thud,
the noise—
relentless—
comes from within,
perhaps from the ceiling of the cave
where the ants dwell,
as if it were a collapse
that, with all its dignity
intact,
asks your permission
to enter
I play dumb
I distract myself with other things
like the panic attack
that death brings me
settled in
in its bird disguise
at the edge of the bed
on the right side
the father’s side
according to those
who say things
those who still insist
that things
can be worked out
that there are appropriate places
and inappropriate places
for the tasks
of life
