iov. iova. iona. ion
in
the beginning was the end. then the agony. then the dry land.
then,
on november 16, i saw iova passing stooped
through
the intersection of victoria with lemnea. it was friday and it
was evening.
now,
listen: i had no money and i wanted to forget. i walked up to
iova,
i
asked iova for money and iova didn't say a word.
probably
he was during his divorce at the time, cause he suddenly took
his
crown of thorns in one hand and threw it down as if it were a fur cap.
what
are you doing? i said. leave him alone, the owl said,
and
passed over his head croaking,
leave
him alone, it said, resignation is
his
pet name.
today
i went in for a scan, iova said. i am
the
inhabitant of a hole, they saw it clearly inside me.
forget
it, i said, they will pull it out somehow, don't
you worry,
they
have forceps, they have catgut, they know how to do it,
c'mon,
you'd better give me a cigarette.
man,
he says, the hole is growing bigger by the day, it has begun to
press upon my lungs
and
now is moving on into my liver.
c'mon,
then, i say, let's go to the bar, to the berbecul, and we'll
fill it up
and
you'll have a sea by dry land.
not
now, iova says, it's been months since i've written, i'm not
expecting
anyone to come from megara any more.
and
every sheet of paper is too thin when i write and it tears
immediately.
look
here: i wear gloves not to be be seen, for now
i
write straight on my hand – it's my deceased aunt.
i
write with difficulty. i jab the tip of the pencil into my skin until
i meet
myself
underneath. i write as deep as i feel i should write.
i
scratch the tissues, i dig in the veins, i scrape at the bone until i
hear
her
coffin penetrated by the graphite.
i'm
writing a single letter a day, until i find myself. the rest
is
silence. no writing compares with this. then,
until
the skin heals above, i write in my palm a mirror image.
that's
why my wife left me. writing is painful.
i
write until the letter plunges under the flesh. some day i shall be
read
only
from inside out. i shall be a book bound in my own skin.
and
impenetrable. and when they open me up
i
shall move on the other side of myself. i shall always
remain
on the inside. they'll search. i shall laugh.
so,
c'mon, let's go to the megara or the berbecul, old pal,
but
today is the last time, 'cause tomorrow
can't
ever be tomorrow.
ioan es. pop
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