THE GATE

Excerpt XXV

The dead are different than their statues. Maria doesn’t

like to be afraid. Fear is the movement of the motionless.

Fear of the moving when it becomes motionless. She had

descended even deeper. Her ascend was a lot longer. She

didn’t like to turn and look at those buttons behind her.

The steps were leading to the top, the knee joint wasn’t

obeying; a spider. Two spiders.

How many legs a spider has? How its saliva freezes

so fast? How it suspends itself holding onto its saliva?

Self-assured, it climbs, descends, stops, observes.

The guards outside; a cigarette butt stuck on the nails

of the boot; the foot, dirty, in the holed sock. The candle

smells of closed chest, into which you could find the sword,

the old clock, the wax lemon blossoms, the half finished

embroidery with the purple and yellow chrysanthemums

the scratched leather gloves, spools, and needles;

how many halves of the half and divided even more? Helen

didn’t know; she was combing her hair

in front of the big mirror; her softly gleaming hair shadowed

those sitting on the sofa with their hats on their knees, with

their regretful hand under the hats, again ready to ask someone

or themselves. Only death is whole, Telis, said.

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