I just finished this 2 weeks ago. The illustration would be accompanying a poem written by Lisa Ciccarello for Tinhouse Magazine issue #53. Here is the poem:
At night, the dark has a sound.
The hands are another night. They make the stars a second time in the gloss of yr eyes.
The night is small sounds & animals you cannot see. You lie to yourself about this & here is where you end: you cannot tell a bird from wind or wind from rain.
The night unlatches everywhere. If there is a question you must ask it here. This is the wall & this is the bed. This is the mirror where you hold me from behind but we don’t see anything.
I want to help you. Here I have torn down the paper & here I have torn down the wall. It is a small step but I feel justified.
I am alone when I see you. Everyone has turned their backs. It is not tender. What have you said to them in that low voice?
I am trying to love you when I cover your eyes. Listen: is that wood on wood or the bone toothed clean? Is that the spreading of wings or the neck bent in the heat?
The night is the simple finger on the plank of wood. I am trying to save you when I press down: where the breath never goes the day never comes.
