Tuesday, March 10, 2020
It's cold and my stomach can't bear even mild tea but I'm wordy so here I am, writing writing at three a.m., listening to rain, wondering how my ancestors made it through the night since I seem so terminally incapable. January allowed for an interior green to assert itself but February - which is usually a brief hallway - has become the sort of organ Bach couldn't leave alone. Nobody has ever asked am I okay which is mostly a function of me learning to live in a way that deflects the attention of others, especially when it is kind, soft, welcoming, et cetera. At night by the river a longing to topple - to fall forever - overwhelms me. Can you imagine how a letter feels when it's folded and tucked into an envelope? Our living is messy in the way of the poor, folks for whom appearances take a back seat to just making sure the kids are fed, one toilet works, et cetera. Something went wrong in Fall River that 1970s Worthington attempted to correct and I am the ongoing possibility of healing albeit fading. Imagine this poem against a bright yellow background. Imagine something dim struggling out of the clouds. High atop the highest mountain, God turns Her glaucomic eye towards us. Armies move across the earth. Smart men make persuasive arguments, horses go out of fashion. After the wedding comes the marriage. After the marriage, this.
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