Had God not made me a ball and chucked me so far afield, I might rest yet in the warmth of those mysterious hands. As it is, I have only the distractible dog of my longing to fetch me back, ears tuned — more or less — to the call to return, but also, eyes […]
there commenced a grief of indeterminate nature wily and severe ambushing from hidden corners retreating and regrouping I thought I knew all the secret places from which the heart blossoms or breaks this sorrow has about it the completeness of joy its heedless spontaneity and how does one bear such rigorous purity the necessary incoherence […]
Consider Father Damien’s right hand beneath the earth at Kalaupapa where the rotting flesh of outcast lepers defiled living bone their spit falling from ruined mouths how he offered that hand to them joined their suffering would not let them die alone until his own flesh decayed on living bone now crumbled to dust in […]
did I ghost my life, indentured to some lesser master, determined not to breathe too gladly, and was I afraid of my body’s fierce appetites, how it loved food, needed water, wanted you, how in the same moments it longed to be free, and caught, as if paradox were its natural disposition, the skeleton on […]
Today I reserve to praise tapioca, the perfect composure of uncooked pearls, the unruly softness of finished pudding; such sweet solace, enfolding. Tomorrow is set aside for mixed beans, the certainty of their many forms that yield willingly in simmering broth, finished with salt; their reliable sustenance. The day after I will bow to coffee, […]
Why this persistence at closed doors, your bruised fist knocking at blighted exteriors beyond which lies nothing that wants you, while all around doors stand ajar, ready to yield to your open palm, waiting to sing you across their thresholds?
Some day soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow. Wishing you well and muddling through, buoyed by the incomparable Judy Garland singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane.
I fell from the life of everything through warm, wet darkness, iron in my innocent mouth. I was born. Stood on spindly legs, nursed from the life of the world my first milk, its many protections. I was hers for awhile. Then my body changed, became larger. I moved on. Hungry, I ate. Thirsty, I […]