My Enemy, My Heart

Waking to snow falling. Warm billows. Jeremiah makes pancakes, talking loudly on the phone with his friends. What is it with me and long goodbyes? Frost's crow stretches its wings in the hemlocks and my mood darkens, Emily Dickinson-like. Our chickens have aged out of egg-laying mostly, we call them "old ladies," Chrisoula has taken over their care. Dried cosmos. The sounds we make making love. Other falls I've known, might yet know. On the far side of the river a handful of Belted Galloways who will not see the Spring. Fuck men. Suddenly this anger, suddenly this righteousness. My brother is so far away when he is my enemy! My heart basically a paper bag, reused over and over, thin and a little grease-stained, as when growing up there was no other way. Drinking instant coffee with Ma, talking about church, who goes and who doesn't, who talks too much at the liturgy committee meetings, all the while praying Lord make me worthy of forgiveness. Little bits of Jesus. What it takes to drive nails. Promises I did not know I was making but have faithfully kept over half a century now, probably to my detriment. Little cathedrals, little sacristies. Kicking the mouse traps to close them, exhausted with dealing in death. Imagine enough: what are you imagining?