Essay on My Tower

by: Sarah Fox

The abject has only one quality of the object—that of being opposed by it. —Julie Kristeva, Powers of Horror

I’m in the milk and the milk’s in me. —Maurice Sendak, Mickey in the Night Kitchen

My small awakening pearls in a bell
amidst the windblown birdsong
and bats touristing the tower
where I nest in late grandmothers’
hairstrands and rosepetals. I often press
my self against the column: all the water,
my body’s spectral crashing waves underskirt.
Or the more birdlike comportment
of zero traumas ever. Or is this a well.
I conjure extra instinct in the higher air.
Animals transit the rotunda, moths
venture here to whiten and die.
This must be real, then. I can’t stop
touching the shape. At the head
of the cylinder. Seated at the right
hand of the Head of the Table.
My small glass thought divined
from the bottom of my nakedness.
If I ever could touch and feel it.
I’m in the cock and the cock’s in me.
As if my inner violet finally opened
with Mars as its ruling planet. As a tower
about war. Between structure and lightning,
the god in the details of pure air
and the bruise I believed to be true.
Bruise-colored tissue eclipsing
the solar heart of me—the core
of this traumatic need for infinite
contact with pure surgeon tower dazzle.
My tower-spectacular me straddling
bearclaw and speculation. Cave goddess
and risky behavior. As if my inner mouth
can’t stop rooting for the primal colossus—
the pure and vigorous heart—of my tower
of towering father at the bottom of every well.