The lives

I don’t want to go home. Out here under the endless skies and uninhabited prairies, chains of lonely mountains, I can find my place of rest. I can settle into my remote life without anyone looking on with scorn or accusation, and my secret life can be an open book – you just need to pause and pay close attention. Secrets are in the details. Take one of the four directions, west. West is where I have always wanted to go – west towards the setting of the sun. In the dream I keep edging closer to the coast, until I settle into a cabin perched on top of a sea cliff. There is a monastery down the road, and I take care of the village orphans. One is always blind so that she can never see me, and another is always lame so that he can never go far. The monks appreciate my cooking but are preoccupied with conversations they have with God. At night, I walk the dirt path along the crashing waves, breathing the rhythm of the world and repeating, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, here at the end of the world.

Sometimes my lover comes to my door and we spend the evening by the soft light of the oil lamp, reminiscing about our lost lives. He tells me how he wound up with a brace on his leg, and I tell him why I never had children of my own. Later, we undress and explore the wounds on our bodies. They slowly warm up to become radiant stars.