Sylvia and Ted: After the Movie

Hawks shrieking like infants wailing. Trees violent in the wind (the wind, that menacing fresh air). Poems that would not come while cakes poured sweet and crisp from the oven (the oven, I did not understand before why you chose the oven – I did not ask). Country houses, damp apartments stuffed with poetry and the explosive dark of your liebestodd. These images leapt over my shoulder onto the screen. Confronting them, their imitation precise, their sounds (for images have sounds), I squirmed at the limits of imagination. I celebrated the blind eyes of imagination. Your love was fiction, your tragedy the lines you both knew so well, the lustful, comfortless words. Must life follow on from your few fictioned facts, always imitate cruel art? Here we sit – the car, the rain, the wind. An airless box. Stifled fury.

 

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