“The already human being in whom I had sought shelter for my body yielded nothing to the storm. The house clung close to me, like a she-wolf, and at times, I could smell her odor penetrating maternally to my very heart. That night she was really my mother. She was all I had to keep and sustain me. We were alone.”—Henri Bosco, Malicroix
The dreamer’s last
and first dreams
are born in the maternal
crook and cradle of a house,
real and metaphysical all at once,
where the slow blue seasons
of breathing,
between you and “her,”
shape the bones
of sound and memory,
upon so much pared
longing.
John Biscello 