miss Wilkinson says that she is very happy in her wilkinson life
rose Poème triste
the scar of which we’ve known from the very start
miss Wilkinson says that she is very happy in her wilkinson lifemiss Wilkinson says that she is very happy in her wilkinson life strong-willed stalks of Alzheimer’s sticky wings of dragonflies in Indonesia I read religion is very influential in daily life nurse, do you know if there is a god? don’t turn off the light give me the book and pencil my husband Alan can never find the way here my son and daughter live on the neighboring street the little nests on my branches in each three baby birds Alan and I adore them we are very happy very happy. and how are your children, nurse? the nurse answers: my children lost it I’m sorry, miss Wilkinson, my children lost it—the boy hung himself and the girl jumped out the window. and then her husband Alan arrived and miss Wilkinson bade farewell and left in a wheelchair for her happy wilkinson life and the nurse was left on the fourth floor of Toronto Western Hospital at noon on Tuesday 20th October 2009.
rose Poème tristethere was no rose of exiles of memories see the tattoo on my wrist when in an LSD trip we confessed to each other he held me right here we were bound by a soft rosy room 12 days in 1968 and 7 murderers masturbat i ng s tared s pilled looking for the same thing in others through the mirror (in the ceiling) watched i was fr i ghte nd i was only a lad of 18 the murderer Peter Woodcock attached himself to me i believed to protect me from the murderers when 30 years later i saw him in the corridor in Oak Ridge he did not remember me the same rose was on his wrist (after the rosy room he did mine i did his) he said underro se ijacko ff on memor y
the scar of which we’ve known from the very starton the New York subway opposite us sat a black man with a pink scar across his neck he was listening to the voices I know about the voices because Dima had exactly the same scar after he tried to cut his head off Margaret Atwood has a poem about a hunter at the very end of the path speaking of how his innocent soul runs as if it were the hoof of a deer; at the end of the poem he throws his head back and there in plain view the scar of which we’ve known from the very start Dima told Zhenya about his voices Zhenya told Denis Denis told me half a year after Dima hung himself Dima told Zhenya that he heard how people on the minibus were talking about him about how he wasn’t okay when Denis told me about the voices I thought why oh why didn’t Dima tell me I would have saved him in 2005 at the corner of Romenskaya Street and Ligovsky Avenue I asked Dima about the scar he lied about being slashed with a knife in a fight but I believed I learned the truth when I learned about the voices on the wintry road on the way to the cemetery now after three years I understand why he didn’t tell me he didn’t want me to know that he wasn’t okay he didn’t want me to know that everyone knew he wasn’t okay from the very start his mother knew he wasn’t okay as soon as he was born so she abandoned him at the hospital and at the orphanage everyone knew that he wasn’t okay so he was sent to a school for the intellectually disabled every single person knew but I didn’t and so he didn’t tell me and I didn’t save him and when I looked at the man sitting opposite us on the New York subway and saw his, Dima’s, eyes and his, Dima’s, scar—the misplaced suture for schizophrenia and when I knew that he listened to his, Dima’s, voices I knew that someone better than me was saving him and so he is here, alive