“Wedlock House: An Intercourse,” Stan Brakhage (1959)

These Things of His Which I Take To Market

There is a woman who trolls the streets of this city selling old souls.   She travels by bike and peddles her wares out of a basket.  The first soul I bought belonged to an undertaker whom I kept at my bedside so that he might core and ration my heart.

Once, I put the undertaker under my lover’s pillow.  He dreamt of his wife’s body beside him in the bed.

Now I troll the humid streets looking for vintage goods and fine oranges.  Such luxuries I bring home in a basket.  I sit in our window flaking the peels, looking out over the causeway, wondering of France.

The world has adopted a strange silence.  My skirt has forgotten how to thrill in the breeze.  How many times each morning I think of the sound of the undertaker, his trinkets rattling in the canal of my ear.

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