A Translation of the Missing Story


When the magician died, the woman he had sawn in half fell apart. (First you must
eat all the light, then hands become possible. Illusion follows.) In this way one can reach
across the illusion although the shadows reach farther.

Abandoned cars gossiping on the river bottom, frogs drumming behind the old
church, green eyes and the golden moonlight from the wheat. (But now she sits in the
kitchen with the tiniest TV you have ever seen.)
Nothing falls completely down.

Meanwhile, dripping with ripe extras, her magic slips her clothing, there where the
magician is still grazing upon the escaping buttons of her blouse, gratefully appreciative
of the nipples’ mutual gestures of acceptance pouting against the silk’s accommodations.

She holds him in her hands. She wants to say, “Liberation.” She wants to say,
“Escape.” (But she stays. And she opens.)
The past intrudes.

She scratches the patches of dry skin on each elbow. An odor of molding figs from
the bathroom. The TV interrupts itself with weather and a commercial backed by an
amateur orchestra sawing away at itself.
Several ripe plums await her touch, next to a forgotten postcard, and I’d say there
isn’t any willingness left, I’d say the miracle was a cruiser.
Everybody falls apart. Few stay there.

The force of the sea whispering to millions needs a note from its mother to attend
the field trip because she shouldn’t want to listen to any old dead magician whistling an
Ode to Pablo Neruda’s Seaside Retreat.
Weather interrupts itself with more weather.

She falls through her water until fins sprout and insects stir in her stomach.
Deeper until a shadow recognizes her, the shadow of the magician’s saw.
And the attraction of the body’s shadow grows older, (desire its well, echoing
down to its level of need), a deep cool vibration swimming out.

As if fallen from a dream, a stranger turns once at the top of the hill
on the road of the opened nerve. He feels as if he’s been born and has no idea where this
feeling came from.
Mice gather in the corners of sleep and begin licking each other’s frail new wings.
If his question’s old enough, it could be the answer.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.