Elegy for the Sext
But please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, and fragmentary girl, maybe? —Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath It is true that, after a night of no communication, the Philae lander sent back the first image from a comet, which showed only one of its three legs touching down on the cracked surface.
I imagine the pixel as a tactile thing. A being capable of touching another, in passing, for even the shortest period of time.
You at your cousin’s wedding. Me in front of the mirror, in your phone, with my hand down my pants. Your hand down your pants. Our parts-ofbodies crossing the nation.
In Berlin, when the wall finally fell, citizens rented hammers to chip away souvenirs. Mauerspechte, they were called. Wall woodpeckers.
To participate in the demolition is to be a part of history. Is what I tell myself with every man I leave.
Simone de Beauvoir knew, in the afterlife, she would never be joined with Sartre.
It is true that, once the body becomes fixed, it is too much itself.
It is possible, now, for anyone to own a piece of the wall. One can receive a graffitied, concrete block with the preordered purchase of a video game.
In the dark, while the game is loading, a screen reflects back one’s face.
The spacecraft was named for the Philae obelisk, used to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Once the body becomes a downloadable thing, is it true?
That the part represents the whole, in this space, after a night of no communication.
Hoe, mouth, man with hand in mouth: Egyptian hieroglyph for love.