Thursday, December 8, 2016

The Shimmering Lard

Driving to the butcher down a long hill not quite a mountain, tired but not too tired, and only relatively alone. We who allow ourselves to be troubled by ghosts must still pick and choose our haunts. When I wake at 4 a.m. I am neither gracious nor alert, yet words are still there and - in an oddly predictable way - prayer is still there as well. "You can eat everything but the squeal," he says, helping me carry the divided body to the car, and I laugh out loud, rousting crows from a nearby pine. One is tempted to call the world itself the face of God but resists, knowing all too well that the face of God is that which does not need translation (and thus falls outside one's particular skills and ambit). How hungry we are after three hours of writing! As if the bowl in which yesterday dried rose petals lay had been subjected to a great wind and was now in need of replenishment. To say nothing of the writing, nothing of the voice, nothing of the ears with which one hears. "I'm sorry" I say happily to the bacon jitterbugging in our old cast iron pan. "Thank you" I say to the shimmering lard and the many fresh eggs frying in it. "Oh won't you stay or turn just just a little?" I say to the Lord, who as usual does not reply, but whose passing remains both legible and a comfort.

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