You asked me, very quietly, as if not wanting me to answer, or, as if not wanting me to think you were asking a question; I didn't mind; you asked: what did you write about Marguerite. You asked as if you knew her.
I write, a moment, starting here. Of things, almost fear. Love is love, nothing, by itself.
One breaks down (ears burn, eyes stare, mouth swells), asking, about Marguerite, now that she's long dead. And stones make sense, and tomorrow too. It's no longer ending, an inkling instead of returning. "But one day we are too sad and too alone to play along. And then, all of a sudden, we tell the truth about our state. Not much is called for, a few words, but come from our icy cave. Suddenly we say to the child sitting affectionately next to us, trustingly touching our arm: 'Leave me alone.'" (Helene Cixous, Firstdays Of The Year:29)
Perhaps you were being kind. And so I tried to tell you, quickly, about the guns. The world between one moment and the next.
Did I say enough? You sat still.
One day I'll write a book. Set out, a few words, to be born.
And Marguerite, who knows. She was foreign, a stranger. I meet you, I dream. Far away, someone in the rain.
In our long lives we'll have hours. I touched you, once and for all, after the flowers had bloomed the remains are here, gradually, unfolding, before my eyes, waiting.