Both
Is it? Oh, I’m sorry. Sometimes it feels as if my fingers lock up, and
I’m alone on the bed, cupping my rage like my stepfather did, or
sleeping off the annoyances.
It’s the ease that does it. How easy it is for everyone else. The sky
grays out, as if disabled; clicking on that sky brings you nothing. Then
rain furs the bare trees, fuzzing the edges off everything, and it’s too
cold to think. When will Winter leave us alone, or beat us up?
I like one or the other. Not both.
Walking from one room to the next, holding in front of her the copper
rods, waiting for them to cross over water, over pregnancies, over the
dead and their awkward ashes. In this box, note how your memories curl
at the edges, licked by invisible fire, but slowly, almost imperceptible.
It would be a whole lot simpler if we just disappeared. I’d never have
to bloat and blue in an August cold; I’d never have to serrate to dust,
to become aloof to changing. A current of everything happening always
smothers our corposes. Always. they’re in the way.
She remains very calm while addressing me.
--
Lewis LaCook
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