To Never Forget Again

Morning rain, horses whinnying. Traffic on Route Nine on Sunday morning a pleasant thrum. All night I listened to blood rushing through my body, as if trying to tell me something, or bear me away to cosmic seas, and yet I no longer know the language of death, and so merely floated through warm pockets of sleep, happy and gentle and alert. Milkweed seeds carried by the river east. I head into the hay loft before the others are awake and write, paragraph after paragraph about what I remembered yesterday, and hope to never forget again. Promises that cannot be broken because they cannot be kept, i.e., we remain confused about what bodies are (the answer has to do with what they are for). Fionnghuala's happy voice coming up from the garden, both hands full of flowers to make bouquets for the neighbors. Losing arguments more and more often now, as if trying to hasten some inevitable crucifixion. Lay the emphasis on barter and potlach and see what happens. It's late but not too late to take up the Irish whistle again, not for glory or praise, but rather to align your breath with the song. He knew the end to which he was consigned and went ahead anyway or did he know that choice is an illusion. Hence trust. This prison cell you insist was never locked, this heart in which the light is never lacking.