Friday, November 11, 2016

The Termlessness of Salvation

On Wednesday morning Jeremiah writes "what the fuck just happened" on our family white board and nobody erases or edits it or otherwise suggests he could have said it less roughly. Chrisoula asks me to fill out cut sheets for the butcher because thinking of the pigs dead and hanging on a hook makes her sad. There is a sky through which we are falling but we are not defined by it. Goodbye moon, goodbye ocean, goodbye side yard lilac bush. When was I not waking early to drink coffee and write poems? Or stumbling drunk through Europe and Boston in order to get more intimate with the termlessness of salvation? I married her and learned how to make laundry detergent and soap, how to grow my own food, how to sit beside the dying, and how to write - and then extend - a wordiness that matters. Oh child, between birth and death - so dimly you could miss it if you hadn't been created just to see it - love. This love.

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