Lately I have been a gap.
Moth clouds follow me to bed.
I counted them: twenty, fifty, block, choke.
In the room where I used to sleep
a breath hangs low on the bed
and hoarsens the room.
No one knows where the air is
charged and released into the world,
but it thistles.
This is how breathing fills a house
with family: breathing to draw
the buzzing to its source
and breathing to lacquer a plugged maze.
How a house fully beamed and walled
is not a house, but a husk.
How a life in the span of a few breaths
becomes a clockless thing.
I learned how to cry finally a couple of years ago. I’m trying to find out if I can make it into a super power. So far I’m still really very bad at it, but Mr Rogers, everytime. Thanks for this waterworks grenade, search engine corp. Between this and a ‘They Grow Up So Fast ‘ video compilation of photos of my child stored on google, I guess I’ll just go for the hat trick, rewatch Dear Zachary, and call it a day. (p.s. no one watch Dear Zachary unless I’m with you to hold you and bring you tissues.)
Thank you to Chelsea for asking me to catch up and to chat about a project I consider (mostly) complete!
Despite the Merc Rx follies, our video being useless, audio giving her terrible problems, the lag making us trip over each other’s words, and me sounding like I just woke up and am calling from an alternate plane of existence, it was really fun to spend virtual time with each other, speaking about our primary love. I only regret that I popped home from work during lunch to do this because you can tell I’m still in work mode and not properly in a poetry head space — my reading is terrible and rushed. Switching speeds can incredibly hard for me, but I’d cross treacherous rivers and terrible oceans if it meant I got to talk poetry for even a few minutes.
REMEMBER THAT TIME OVER A WEEK AND A HALF WHEN I WROTE THE MOST GORGEOUS, HEARTBREAKING, AND CANDID ESSAY ABOUT THE INDULGENCE OF OBSESSIVE GRIEF AND THEN I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED IT AND IT CAN’T EVER COME BACK AND HAPPY URANUS RETROGRADE / ECLIPSE SEASON. I GUESS IT’S NOT AS BAD AS THAT TIME I LOST A HARD DRIVE OF WRITING SO.
time for this.