Dazed by sunlight on fresh snow. Stumbling in the barn before dawn, the cold making my lungs ache. We’ve been here before but why.
Driving through the city, something iron in my chest sharpens itself in anticipation. There are no pigs, says Jasper mildly, mocking my ACIM stance, and the two of us grow quiet, there on the porch. Stars hang in the sky, the sky hangs in my skull, and my skull hangs in the void like a luminous black opal.
Eating cold rice with slivered apples and olives, nimbler than I remember with chopsticks. Imagining my mother’s death I start shaking and Chrisoula looks up, asks sharply, “what’s wrong?” I thought the world was fatherless but I was forgetting myself.
Something in me longs for solitude now, beyond women, beyond prayer. All those fictional detectives attesting to our need for order and our secret suspicion that we are not up to the task, need a hero, et cetera. The hills are not transparent yet I love them – am I wrong then about the Lord?
Chickadees sing up and down Main Street. Lukewarm coffee in the middle of the day. I remember writing poems by hand, always pruning them, trying to find the elusive “that” of which Barthes spoke.
Last of the rhubarb pie, everybody asleep. I remember Chrisoula coming up out of the sea holding a child, and living with her, her and her daughter a long time, on sand and wind and stone. Insufficient altars set aside in favor of this.
Point and name what you point at. Lilac thriving in our shared mind.
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