Loss

(from East Wind Drawings Land And Sea)

written by Tamar Yoseloff​

 

The artist waits until the dead hour, when his eyes 

yield to darkness. Only now can he draw, the burden 

of sight lifted. He rises from sleep, takes a nub of charcoal, 

firm and dry between his fingers, hears its churr against paper, 

digs a line into the coarse weave.

 

He wants to be nothing more 

than motion, not even a hand, something without source; 

he wants to make a mark that doesn’t resemble anything 

he knows, no word assigned to it. He wants to draw loss – 

like a gush of air released through a long unopened door, 

like the way night sucks shape and colour from the chair or rug, 

even though he knows they’re still here.

 

He can’t be certain; 

things are unmade in darkness. His body has vanished, 

just ticking organs, a funnel of breath. Walls melt away; 

the room opens to sky. Faith unravels like a ball of string.