Scheherazade Finishes
In 1,001 Arabian Nights, the storyteller fights for her life
by dreaming up cliffhanger after cliffhanger. She is
trying not to be loved. Each night, she walls herself
off, letting the words take the shape of a body.
And then she is alone with her creation, breathing
in the corner. A little bit of the future rushes in to the void
like tide or bird song or the longing for another life,
where she sleeps in the hulk of pine trees, not palms.
When we get to the end of a story, even a story that saves us,
sometimes we learn that love belongs to the next day.
One voice disappears so something else is just beginning.
It crackles with release, seeds shaped like little swords,
blown to the wind. Discards. Lost to do’s. On the desk,
the list left behind of what must happen soon.