Chrisoula comes downstairs at 2 a.m., asks me to come upstairs and lie down with her, and blearily I go. Dreams of muffins and of something going horribly wrong. Let us pray.
Easter is a dim memory but Ma did make several of us cry, so there’s that. Be happy, be helpful, there is really nothing else. Pissing in loose hay behind the barn.
Were we in fact dancing or was that just a fancy way of describing our particular blend of loneliness and desire. In my heart is a river and on the bank of that river we sit forever, holding hands and not needing to speak. How in April the violets appeared, something wild reminding me we’re going to be okay.
Fantasies that we don’t even know we are indulging. How frightening in a way to realize your own mind! The whole problem is symbolized by the idea that there is more than one Jesus, which there indubitably is.
Squash soup with crackers, don’t bother me. In the middle of the night in the middle of spring insomnia suddenly came back, I wake and know the darkness is calling, and find myself unable not to answer. My feet are singing, a song of tiredness and peace.
Settle up! Practicing making fires with flint, this new insistence on living in old ways. Kissing after swallowing, that way of saying yes to something beautiful beyond us.
Let the prayer begin! Oh all this green, I can’t bear how happy you make me.
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