I am watching with my inner eye, and I see the poet like a floating body, moving around the house as if not touching the floor, her whispering feet resting here and there. I perceive Emily's kitchen moments with baked pastries and hot tea. I sense the silence of the morning as if looking from her eyes, out through the window, and into the garden, welcoming a diagonal light traversing the curtains in between. A poem becomes alive in a napkin, as a cinnamon muffin becomes alive during a shared breakfast. At sunset, the house smells good and tender, like a mother.
Letters come and go like the best bridge in town.
These rooms where Emily lives seem flexible, a flowing flesh with no thresholds to cross. They keep stretching at their own pace as if fading within an impressionistic painting. Copyright of ANQ is the property of Heldref Publications and its content may not be copied without the copyright holder's express written permission except for the print or download capabilities of the retrieval software used for access. This content is intended solely for the use of the individual user.