Emily Berry

I went into one room and then I went into another. I was in a room inside a room. There I felt safe.

After Nadia Reid This spirit she came upon me as I slept — in such a way my life or yours could come to be so thoroughly owned — she was reckless — I knew she would make me run away with her — I said spirit, slow down — but the spirit wanted to ride — but I am so afraid, I said — I have all this tenderness to impart — but the tenderness is not mine to give away — but all your tenderness is your own tenderness, said the spirit — it is not, I said — why then did you give it all away? — I did not give it away — then it is yours to give away — the spirit riddled like this — if in her arms I read a story — if out of her arms I had the choice to write one but I chose not — chose not because I did not know where I was going — because my path broke down & I had this choice — stay or split — if I knew that were I to split one part of me would become a ghost — if I did not know yet which part — if the voice calling me out asked me to describe the splitting & I did — if I said it was like smoke spiraling outwards — it was like smoke lifting off me taking on form & leaving me — if  it was like a delicate girl I never met but dreamed of — if it was like the flags of my youth fluttering, far out at sea — like breathing out a breath you will never take back in — but you know you can never take any breath back in — if I saw her outside of myself & mourned her like I have mourned no other loss — if I knew it was both a miracle & the most terrible tragedy — to open up — release a flame — watch the flame go — have you seen it? A flame that can ride water — she was my daughter & if I could I would send her to you, if I sent her to you would you take her? Listen, I ran this out of me because I knew it would burn me down — my trainers press the ground & lift up again — I saw myself on my back in high grass in high summer with everything coming to me — how this ghost left me & printed a new person all over me — I could peel her off or live like this — I cried —one or both will destroy me!— the spirit called it fate but I knew it was just drama —I will never know why a good person must die — fate does not exist I said, but every door I opened showed yes yes yes — I shut each one & locked it — checked the locks three times — went back & checked them again — shook them to be sure — drew hearts round the keyholes so the spirit would know I loved her — it wasn’t — it was never — that I didn’t love her —

What can I tell you? It was a summer that seemed to be making history — their personal history — almost before it began, and they stood back slightly, still in it, but observing it, saying “the summer this,” “the summer that,” all the while it was going on. They became obsessed with a fountain, for example, one they walked past each day, how abundantly it would reach upwards and yet be pouring back down itself the whole time — all winter this fountain had been dry, not saying a word. What more can I tell you? Oh, everything — like how they would walk home in the evenings when the light was soft, anything bad sliding off them, and they would feel owned, completely owned, in a good way, by the air, which would touch them constantly, sometimes urgently, sometimes lightly, just to let them know it was there, and they would think maybe this is what being alive is, when they saw how complicated a tree was and how it wanted them looking at it and saying this, how the color of a particular flower at this particular moment was redder even than the life force, whatever that is, if you could open it up and get right down inside it, if you could put your mouth to it and become as red as that rose even, it was still redder than that, and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves so they wouldn’t do anything except listen to the songs in their heads which were sad ones like nearly all good songs and watch this feeling rolling in, sunshine or rain, we don’t know yet, it’s a good one, it’s the best one, though it has no name.

A cento I became a therapist against my will A strange feeling of forlornness, a feeling I could not have stood Painful isolation, quite steep and slanting A beautiful forest which had the one drawback of seeming never to end I have had to struggle so long I have always been frank with you, haven’t I? I wanted to explain the reason for my inaccessibility I am lying here on a short leash in this filthy hole So far I haven’t been locked up Several people point to gaps in my face where the little girl has been cut out She screams and screams without any self-control Ravaged by the heat and the blood-&-thunder melodrama Neither describable nor bearable I felt I had known her all my life

A cento I have some sad news for you I am but a symbol, a shadow cast on paper If only you knew how things look within me at the moment Trees covered in white blossom The remains of my physical self Do you really find my appearance so attractive? Darling, I have been telling an awful lot of lies lately If only I knew what you are doing now? Standing in the garden and gazing out into the deserted street? Not a mermaid, but a lovely human being The whole thing reminds me of the man trying to rescue a birdcage from the burning house (I feel compelled to express myself poetically) I am not normally a hunter of relics, but ... It was this childhood scene ... (My mother ... ) All the while I kept thinking:her face has such a wild look ... as though she had never existed The fact is I have not yet seen her in daylight Distance must remain distance A few proud buildings; your lovely photograph I find this loss very hard to bear The bells are ringing, I don’t quite know why What makes all autobiographies worthless is, after all, their mendacity Yesterday and today have been bad days This oceanic feeling, continuous inner monologues I said, “All the beautiful things I still have to say will have to remain unsaid,” and the writing table flooded

Is this mountain all rock, or are there any villages on it? These are some of the things I said to her. We bake because it is a way of overcoming. In the journey of zest, I see myself. On the news every day people are standing up screaming or lying down screaming while others remain calm. She pointed out that I had not made eye contact with her at all. Then I cried properly in a short burst. This is the worst example of any circumstance ever, noted a journalist in his notebook. Let butter and chocolate be a wish not to die! I implored the bain-marie. She likened me to a sieve. I clutch all my poems to my chest and count them again and again. I am kneeling like a small dog. What’s going on with this modern world and the right wife not even knowing what the left wife is doing? Now all you have to do is cut off the legs. After an absence, after a hard task, after the way the hand turns, like this — There was so much I couldn’t contain. She asked me how I was feeling in my body at this moment; I said tense in my whole trunk area. A strong smell of white wine. She said it came from an impulse that she often used to have when she first started practicing. She said she believed feelings are held in the body. She asked me what was going on with my breath and I realized I was sort of holding it. Like the boxes in the cupboard. “Enough” can get bigger. How much bigger, though? When I say I’ve had enough, how will you know when to stop?

I believed death was a flat plain spectacular endlessly Can you distort my voice when I say this? My scared ghost peeling off me Distortion, she says, as if she has just made it up And then she is quoting a line from a poem Or is it a whole poem, I wish I could remember My voice opens and calls you in I don’t know if you can hear me I said, I carry inside me the trace of a threat that I cannot discharge I said, I want to ask you things you can’t ask a person who doesn’t exist She said, Why can’t you ask them If we can’t have everything what is the closest amount to everything we can have? She said, Why can’t you have everything Well, you know, when you’re looking for a person, sometimes they appear And a light goes on and off in the opposite window, twice Yes, you say, that was a sign Strange love for the living, strange love for the dead Listen. I don’t know who you are but you remind me of — I wish you would put some kind of distortion on my voice, I tell her So people don’t know it’s me They know what they know, she said I told a story about my shame It got cold when the air touched it Then it got hot, throbbed, wept, attracted fragments with which it eventually glittered Till I couldn’t stop looking at it Exactly, she says And then she is quoting a line from a poem, I don’t know which one In my dream she reached out to touch me as if to say, It’s all right How I began to believe in something Are you there? The wind called to the trees And then it happened And they said, How do you feel? And I said, Like a fountain Night falls from my neck like silver arrows Very gently

In our house we live with Arlene. My little sister has a plan. She has what they call a beginner’s mind. She sees everything from an un-given-up perspective. I’m frightened; I know Arlene better than anyone; she knows me better. Esme says if I’m scared we can’t win. But I am scared. Arlene drags me over to the window where the black mould has made a map of Australia. Australia gives me trouble breathing, it’s so far away. Arlene points it out and I get the feeling in my chest, my whole life in there twisted up like a snake. It could bite me or her. She puts a hand on my breastbone. You’re not strong. I want to tell her we can look after ourselves. I want to tell her I’m in charge now, but I can still see the dark blur at the edges. I don’t sleep anymore, my head is full of this insomniac light. I lie awake watching over my sisters and I listen to them breathe. Esme whispers that I should wake her if I need to. I say I will, but I never do. Even when I sleep I dream I can’t sleep and I’m standing there looking down at them, the night pouring from my hands. Esme has a future in mind. She’s always laughing. She gets up early and makes buttermilk pancakes using normal milk soured with lemon juice. She tries things out. Arlene tells us to stay away from sharp things or we’ll cut ourselves. Esme does what she likes. She grates apple for a new recipe and cuts her knuckle and laughs. I don’t know if I can live my life. I don’t know if I can look after someone as unafraid as Esme. I don’t know how to change what I do, the way someone eating soup will, out of habit, bite down. Esme laughs; she’s serving up apple pancakes with banana and maple syrup and she says,You are a whole person. A row of mornings fan out. And the pancakes are sweet and slightly gummy with a salt edge.

In the nighttime house I don’t know where you are My allegiances could change How can I stop my allegiances from changing? Morning is a gown put on at midnight, but no one’s coming I don’t know what your secrets are You say you have no secrets but I can feel them, they’re bumps under the blanket You do not let me in This mood kept me up all night, like stars in my face, like the burning fuel of dead stars burning right through my face So now I have my own secrets This voyage at nighttime, these burning holes I can’t take you with me — I don’t know who you are You say it’s me, but I’m dreaming, I can’t recognize anything except someone else’s song, which sounds like a kind of siren, it’s calling me, it puts a light on Give me three reasons Oh, you think I test you? You think I work you too hard? You think it’s too much to make you master the task on your blue-black knees at 3 am ?