The Distance Between Here and Here by Galina Dukov
Let’s suppose for a second that I never went back. Let’s suppose for a second
that there was no last humiliation, no look back over the shoulder,
no final act of God. Let’s suppose
that I didn’t bloody my knees for no good reason. Let’s suppose
that I remained the undiscovered deep-sea species. Let’s suppose
that all of these conversations were wholly one-sided (because I was never there) (which is of course how all of our conversations happened) (except in the previous ones you were the one that was not there)
I still had a strange urge to take off my shoes in your house,
no matter how many times I went. And can you blame me,
think about everything that had gone into building it (you always cut me off before I started talking about this part)
I loved a lot of things when I was still here, but I don’t know what I will miss the most. Maybe the certain edge to your voice when I could tell I had riled you up just enough, standing on the precipice of the great kareth I had long been promised. That you never did strike me down, in the end,
remains a small miracle,
the kind that is etched onto the back of my eyelids
like the lopsided smiles of so many people I loved,
I guess, thanks,
in part at least to you,
and to my heretic soul, for fighting the good fight until the end,
although you and I could never agree on what exactly was good about it. Bickered well into
the night as I haven’t with anyone, before or since. When I was still here,
I had spent so long trying to figure out
if I’d be looking back on all this
from down or below
but that question seems to have lost much of its importance along the way. And anyway,
now that I’m here, and trying to figure out precisely
how to talk about the difference between here and here, I find
I’m just looking straight across, whatever that means.
Galina Dukov is a London-based multidisciplinary writer who primarily
works in poetry and short fiction. Her work has previously appeared in
Reverb and Wild Greens.
