Invention was your solitude, your twin,
wasn’t it, Miss Nin?
The way you spread secret pages
like silk violet capes,
like fringed shawls,
over an air of mystery, and err
You enabled symmetry, to confess.
Why couldn’t a woman be a fabulous opera fulfilled
nightly through shadowcall and tenor?
Why couldn’t many hands
attend fruitfully to matters of flight
and garden envy?
Paradise, for you, was always one well-flung
entry away, wasn’t it?
A diarist’s mad dash
and hush to engorge, inflame,
and export the wilds of a soul
which outgrew borders
and margins, the fluid spill of ink
a blue bloodlet to let the air in,
to carry visions to siege and form.
You warmed yourself in reveries,
Miss Nin, while attempting to detonate
and explode your neuroses, going so far
as to leave us detailed maps of your psyche’s labyrinths
Yet, like a cartographer with an interiority complex,
your maps led seekers to regions well beyond you,
territories, unmarked, leading us back to ourselves,
and I, like a spelunker with a hard-on for Sphinxes,
used your maps
to my own advantage,
to reveal and baffle,
to record and dwell,
because, you see, Miss Nin,
your bones carried over
as mine will to another,
and so on and so forth,
an underground network
of interconnected bridges and tunnels,
where the tenderest of ravels
come to know the secret bask of pink