An angel visited me because I was there and so was she. We made our
appearance visible. I was in my bedroom and the light hit the wall
in such a way I felt the first five years of my life unfurl and
defragment. I was met with something that didn't have words yet, that
exceeded language but I felt through love, or awe or whatever exceeded
awe. My room was warm because it was springtime, almost summer, maybe
it was late May or the beginning of June. I chose to betray the limits
of my body for the beauty of the angel. She had pointed fingers, as all
angels do. She didn't have memory, not like me. I emptied everything
for her because I was there, and so was she. We communicated to each
other like I do in my dreams. It was a transmission of information that
predated me, an interception of a trance that separated me from the
corporeal. What she said could be interpreted as a whisper, or something
more obsolete, more akin to the wind or a river cutting against bedrock.
I listened because I was there and she was alive embossed into the
intricacy of the wallpaper separating me from the wall from my apartment
from the city. I could tell you every detail of the wallpaper if you had
a billion years to listen.
The vision of lace, or lace before lace and lace after lace. giant patterns
embedded into the tiny intimacy of lacework. This is mathematical, an
organization of organs, of carefully, patiently woven nests sewed against
each other. Lace is a battleground. Today it felt vaginal. It was soft and
motherlike, I asked her to conceive and she gave birth on my floor, wet
and saccharine and human. The birth water coagulated like honey milk. I
was too afraid to run away: either way, what would I run towards?