Today I watched two seagulls, sitting on separate lamp posts; thirty crows crowding the top of a pine; and some guy trying to walk his dog and his cat at the same time. The forsythias looked starry-eyed at me, breathtaking as always. Raindrops clustered on a handrail. The scratched-up look of black-bark trees. I saw the black and white and red from my umbrella swirled overhead as I walked down an empty street.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
When there is a shine that drills from its reflected surface deep into my cornea and I have to blink away, eyes watering, photo-bleached, ghost lights floating, I can't help but think of you.
Your watch that would blind me, accidentally of course, when you rested your arm on the door of the car.
Now you are underwater, the ocean breakers miles above you. The light just barely filters down and your watch is waterlogged.
I am above you, skipping stones, wincing as the light bounces off the water.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I haven't cleaned this room in weeks and the dirty clothes on the floor are mountaining. My bathrobe drips down the side of my couch the huge empty cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor are so cumbersome. They get in the way. They'd be so easy to move, but I can't.
The desk is piling up with garbage. I keep trying to throw it away, but I just get more and more every day. Everything feels paused like it's cheating to do anything at all. Like I'm holding my breath and conserving my oxygen by remaining motionless.
And then there is the garbage I can't bear to throw away. The thermometer instructions (what if I forget?) the birthday cards from family (what if this is the last one?) The expired food I can't stand to waste (it probably wouldn't kill me, yet.)
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Death comes first, before anything lives. But from that nothingness came somethingness-- or so we have been told.
Death rides upon his pale horse (always the traditionalist) while a priest--his robes lit by the sun (is it rising or setting?)-- prays over a fallen man. A woman weeps, kneeling. She coughs a rose of blood.
Death looks at me with eyes that saw the beginning of things. "LET GO," he says, not unkindly. I wonder how he knows.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Insects are made of gems that distill from raindrops that linger on twigs. They’re roses, bloomed from eggs. Wings, soft-petaled, fold under a hard, external skeleton, and careful, they twitch a leg.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
The Queen of Cups has been mummified, wrapped in scraps of linens, propped on the throne, cup in hand. A river runs at her feet, eroding away her toes, soaking her wrappings, dampening that dried skin. She moulders. Festers. In the distance, cliffs rise, though they only reach her waist. What burden is the cup, the crown, the throne? How long must she sit, gazing at it with empty eyes?
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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