[Braille Face effort no. 12, based on Jot. The last of the set]
Let’s go backwards. Let’s rewind.
Ten. We’re in the ruins of Babel and your loyalty is my hate-speech and my sublime music is your god-awful satanic racket. I’ve taken the books. You’ve got the house. I sit under the cliff, by the great black wall, and listen to the scream of gulls.
Nine. Here are medications for the cruelty of the world: Xanax, Prozac, Facebook, kittens, knitting, strategic deafness, reality television. We are sealed to our separate devices.
Eight. You’re away a lot now. I say “mm” when you talk and wish you didn’t snore. There’s a fear in my gut I don’t tell you about.
Seven. On holiday we carefully study the phrasebook and memories from past lessons come back to us. We tentatively join hands with a strange place, a brief touch, and are warmed.
Six. The words and the music are one and fit us perfectly. The celestial spheres revolve.
Five. Music teaches a love looking for names. An aching in the chest, blood quickening, a sense of all the space in which you might be waiting.
Four. You throw your shoes over the power line and walk home barefoot. They dangle there, cheerfully unexplained.
Three. As a child I write words in the sand on the beach for the waves to remember.
Two. I learn jokes. Knock knock. Who’s there? Me! And a big hug.
One. The mouth speaks to the milk and the fist to the air, flailing. We have to learn object relations. The world emerges: mama, tree, mine, again.
Zero. Heartbeat and darkness.