Sunday, June 27, 2021

In Mailboxes, Under Apple Trees

Don't even think about the pearls, son. Ticks will remain, cowbirds will remain maybe. What I can't say begins to leave me, like how years ago we left a Jackson Browne concert early to get a jump on traffic, saying hours later on 91 in southern Vermont, it wasn't very good, was it. 

Liminal green haze in mid-summer, running at the park, then detouring to the river for a "dip." Stars fall into tall grass by the pasture. If I dreamed once, I do not dream now.

Disclosures which end marriages, marriages that are themselves the site of disclosures about power which naturally deepen the couple, enabling more and better disclosures. But who is listening? One gets confused about the meaning of "literary," wanders away and then back, like seeing did the party get better in their absence. 

Hiding in mailboxes, under apple trees, and in behavior designed to obscure my fear and basic goodness. Suddenly all this hostility. At four a.m. listening to thunder in the distance, my dead uncles limping around the garden in the dark, confused by how Chrisoula doesn't plant in rows. 

Watching Mike Tyson videos, knockout after knockout, thinking of my grandfather, and how we all have to learn what to do with our pain. Vodka shots, drawn blinds, fantasies involving guns. There was a little room over the library, with Civil War uniforms under glass, and she took me up there and kissed me, holding me against the wall away from the window.

Ham steaks. Something slips past the filters, reaches awareness, and we name it, we welcome it like the prodigal, but at night when we sleep it watches us from the corner, awaiting orders from its maker, who does not mean us well. Funeral songs.

Cold apple pie and maple sausages for breakfast, hot coffee to go, getting on the road before it's light. Who are nothing if not obedient, for whom God is all the glory.

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