Where Your Face Was

How “war” arises etymologically from words that relate to “confusion.” Witches riding bicycles up Main Street. Hot buttered rum indeed.

 

I once imagined this project would end when I repeated a title but now I know how it ends.

 

Life is a wave of sorts – an energetic profusion – rushing the watery surface, ascending towards the stars. Cornbread with raspberry jam. Standing by the window, playing As I Roved Out on the pennywhistle. It’s the attic and basement that remind us how old the house is.

 

It’s hard to explain the cookbooks, I just read them, mostly I cook from memory, and most of my memories are of my mother and grandmothers cooking, and these are the only memories I will miss when I am dead. Opening the curtains at night to see the moon and stars. 

 

I dreamed you were straddling me, baobab trees rose from your shoulders, and where your face was a moon shone, vast and bright, like a promise of peace forever fulfilled.

 

Umbrellas are sexy, what can I say.

Getting by. David, do you remember that time canoeing with our dads, the picnic in that field overlooking the reservoir, how happy we were?

 

Jasper says what if it was supposed to be twenty-one sentences.

 

Sixteen. Seventeen. I like Palm Sunday more than Easter, I’m that kind of guy.

What happens in a blackout does not stay in a blackout, sorry.

 

What if there is no more good news ever and what if you and I were the ones given to make it otherwise?