The Useless Degree | Page 23

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by Shane Vaughan

With pen, made from the hollowed bone of her (index) finger, he carves her hallowed name into the walls, floorboards, the skirting, the grout, into the webbed skin of his own fingers, under his nails, his eyelids, the carpet (which they bought together) and the lino in the kitchen, under the tiles in the bathroom, across a lamp or two, some cutlery, a ladle, a large desert spoon (reflecting)(refracting), a bit of a chopping board (green, if it matters), inside a box of matches and the chippings in the fireplace, the oven, between the glazing on the windows, pierces an air bubble in the wallpaper, scratches the hob, the sink, the bedroom, oh the bedroom (theirs) tears it up, carves until there’s no more room for the space of her, until he repeats her over herself, until the carvings are wasted on themselves and he has carved the walls down so that the roof hangs isolated, and he thinks what a fine job he has done (now it is time to howl).

In the moonglow waxing he splits her finger in halves (he is done writing on the memory of her) and leafs for a speck of dust in the dust, settling to make a new house from the ribs of the old house, where her name will be unspoken, and the walls will never be torn down, not by his fingers nor hers nor any combination thereof, and when he sleeps in this new house he will whisper no names, and the walls will whisper back ( )

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