Ratty St. John

I've been thinking about the sinkholes lately. The jury is still out as to whether they're frightening: the earth gaping open like a mouth in love, right under your bedroom floor, and your most private place on earth being subsumed by this rogue cavity, this nook from which you and your bed and your trash and your cat can't return.

But then again, just what is a sinkhole anyway? The negative of all our efforts: all the hours lost to sleep, to drunkenness, concentrated together into one dark shaft. The trick is you can't choose to remember it. It crops up like an impulse, a moment of courage in matters of sex. It shivers open like a heart, at will, and once tasted in your lowest state, replaces all you took to be immutable reality.

If every day we're alive is preparation for grief, for the dreaded moment your face starts to fade from my dreams, then maybe a sinkhole is just like a tunnel, shunting us towards that place where lost things go. Not only the repository of every name or poem we forgot, but so too the catalogue of what I couldn't know about you, as if the queer light in your eyes suddenly bore a hole in the wall in between us. The mystery made inhabitable, zowie! If Heaven and Rabbit-hole merged from off Interstate Zero...

And so to be swallowed by one is to choose that hazy face, that mumbled name, above any others to come: to fall in love so literally there is no going back. It is hotwire your life to a memory that perhaps is not even your own. You don't know. You don't know. All that you've retained of a lifetime is the picture of one single kiss, of the moment when somebody told you c'mon baby, loosen up.




Praise be to that gratuitous vowel (oh, LAAAWNGING!) à la [Rihanna]