(Originally posted elsewhere, 2/1/04.)
The alien voice instructing me in the mysteries of intimate transmission has fallen silent. I am a minor disturbance in this magnetic field. The saddest of all small wonders has hands to wring from their very own fingers the nimble shadow of truth. I would be a truth if there were truisms shaped like me, but I come on amorphous, a nebula of purple distortion with specks and dashes of the lost white dwarf sought by pilgrim astronauts.
I owned an island once, so made myself its angry god. Now I would be Prospero’s forgotten son and gentle sister Miranda would please be my little friend.
Come then please and be my little friend, Miranda. Take my hand as we stroll along the beach to sprinkle pollen from unnamed flowers on the bodies of drowned sailors that daily wash ashore. We will give them the peace that is promised in your name and sing the songs the insect spirits taught us in the womb we shared which was one above our separate mothers’ wombs. Together we’ll heal the mooncalf with redemption, bind him close to Ariel, yet set them free and with some series of temperate spells, construct a tower to warn the ships away from this idiosyncratic coast of ours and send them on their way to more appropriate worlds.