Sunday, November 7, 2021

Some Kind of Prayer or Incantation

I was nearly fatally lost in Monet but was found and lifted in Max Ernst, a roundabout gift from a now-dead, listless-at-the-bottom-of-the-sea, cousin. 

Drinking whiskey from the bottle.

Life with sub-agents. Frost flowers on the windows now when the sun rises. There are no mirrors in certain houses.

Taking Dad's old clothes to the Catholic church two towns over - their Fall free-for-all, people coming from cities hours away - I find an acorn in a jacket pocket.

I forget certain names now, wander the backroads happy in what can only be described as non-specific ways. 

It was the sincerity in her art that moved me most, ever trumping the apparent quality or lack thereof, a sign early on that I was given to love and not skill. Hot coffee in mid-November after chores, that happiness, like that.

And now everything changes, yet again.

I go out to see the night sky near midnight, wrap up in a blanket in the only chair still out back, muttering and giggling near the curious horses, reflecting back the happiness I cannot help but believe stars feel when my gaze at long last reaches them. 

Six p.m. and I can hear the river. Two crows.

Medusa is a female fantasy.

Never going back to Greece I don't think. 

Chrisoula asks if I'll drive to Huntington with her, no reason in particular, just a run to the only feed store in western Mass with the grain Jack likes, saying we can stop for coffee at that little store on the corner if it's open on Sundays and I say you had me at coffee which makes us laugh, that marriage.

The architecture of female genitalia and its lovely Latin nomenclature, revealed decades ago in who-knows-what-book, but I was only five or six, walking around whispering "labia minora" over and over like some kind of prayer or incantation. 

Who is the best painter of dinosaurs?

As through a keyhole, a slit.

As mist rises off the lake as we lean into each other, coupled in Her gaze. 

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