1


There is peace at the top. Of a winding road on a mountainside. Though what I am most afraid
of. Lives within me. Dickinson said: One not need be a chamber to be haunted. Quiet possesses
its own risk. The wind prods. At chimes. Jenny Xie: One self prunes violently at all the others
thinking she's the gardener. It is not the distance between who I was. And the one I am. But the
images that haunt at the edges. Of my existence. A knife is a message. To cut. A barking piercing
through the mountain. Is unleashed desire. For destruction. When I dream. It always feels real.




2


What do we know about Julian. Thirty years of life almost gone. Over the edge of death until she
was brought back. Through visions of the divine. The pines in the mouth of the sky. Something
pulled her from the dark place. Stay a while. Her name was unknown. She was the first woman
to write herself into being. The chapel in Norwich where she served was named St. Julian.
The candles in this cabin that bears her name. Are made of plastic.




3


The coffee has grown bitter. Inside the cabin is the kind of quiet. One must long for in the end.
Noises are muddled by the mountains. Maybe a wailing animal. Or a man talking to his child.
In the wind. Which has laid down. And whether there is calm. Or fear. The cabin contains an
orange vest on a hook by the door. In case of hunters. Or bears. If encountering what looks like
a bear. Start singing. As loud as a scream. With some variation in notes.




4


If I walk to the chapel. To light a candle on the darkest day. Of the year. Will I be an imposter or
the self. I pull from the serrated dream.



5


In her hand: Presented to [my grandmother's name]. By Burkhead Methodist Church on the day
of your church vows. April 18, 1943. Reid Wall, Pastor. Saved—May 21, 1946.

The time in between a vow. And salvation. I carried a Bible with me on the guardrail road.
To the cabin. Amulet of time. Hoping to pluck shards from my memory. To erase passages
into words. I wanted to save me. From myself. I didn't realize until now. The Bible belonged to my
grandmother. How lost objects come back to haunt. When I arrived I opened the car door. Out
spilled the small black book onto the grass.




6


What did Julian see that brought her back. From the grave. Some visions in bright colors. Are
more terrifying. Today I will walk to the edge. Of the craggy hill. Come back down to this warm
place. For squash soup and homemade bread. Bits of cheese blue with mold. I am reading
Winesburg, Ohio in which a deranged mother contemplates. How a pair of scissors. Can be
a weapon. To cut herself from her failed sense of self. Wrought images contain the world. My
mind cannot wander like my body can. So freely. I haven't spoken in nineteen hours. I have been
alive for thirty years and three months.




7


My grandmother will spend today in a white bed. Without any of her possessions. When she
moved into constant care. My mother cleaned out the apartment. There were piles of keep donate
throw away. The wildness in me seeks splinters in the language. Seeks order to the darkness.
The women with whom I share blood. Have given away. Much more than their names.




8


I dip into the spine of the old book. Looking for answers. Thou makest darkness, and it is night:
wherein all the beasts of the forests do creep forth.




9


The words do not consume me. As in the narratives from the past. I was a happy child. Running
away from home only for attention. When I believed I was saved. I also believed I was given
poetry. Time passed. Still I have not let all innocence rot. Tomorrow when the day mirrors the
gray blankness of winter. The pines at the same angle as before. Allows one bare increment
more. Of extended light.




10


The beasts do creep forth. I'm not sure it is possible to destroy. What raised me.