I want to stare out into a crowded room, the spotlight so blinding I have the feeling of being alone even though I’m not, when someone shouts from the back of the room, “What do you love?” I tell the room how much I love to fall asleep in the presence of others. When is an opposite an absence? When I finally introduce light, I want to be loved for it. Whoever she is, neither dead nor alive, I feel guilty for her absence.
I’m thinking about my old name, Ilse, which begins with the first person-i-i-i-but in certain typefaces looked like a double-L, like llamo, me llamo llse, and I hated it for that, for being unreadable in that way. The ‘dead’ of night-why do we call it that? On a bench at the edge of the world in Wisconsin, I am trying to make something of the fact that I feel haunted.
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