December 2011
19 posts
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silent night.
There is something so satisfying in grooming a horse clean through the winter scruff, and the look of a stall after it’s been mucked out; when the aisle’s been swept down to bare cement, and flakes of hay have been distributed, and the horses turned out into the pastures for the night in their heavy blankets. Just squinting against the wind to watch the herd’s warm breath rising...
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“…she wants to know if I love her, that’s all anyone wants from...”
– Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close)
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little things.
Sleep comes shallow in a cold bed, like there’s snow stuffed between the sheets. I rise heavy as ice, and early, a body composed of phantom limbs, shaking and unfeeling at dawn. A pull at the blinds finds the ground bare, like we’re at the bottom of an empty cupboard; just crumbs of snow. In my dreams, I tried to explain to you the abstractions of how the soul is a palimpsest, and that ...
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Last night
I dreamt of a great flood.
My brother was in a boat halfway across the river that now lapped against our front door, begging us to swim to him - to safety. My mother was already waist-deep in the muddy water and kept trying to coax me in after here. We needed to get out. The world was flooding. But I wouldn’t; there were dead things floating in the water’s current. Dead plants, dead...
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Drifter
You taste bitter, and restless; like black, 25-cent diner coffee, and menthol cigarettes bummed curbside, and six months of empty hostels in Mèxico. And you eat grapes still filmy with pesticides, and curse only in foreign tongues, and can never finish a novel, but will linger for hours on its final pages. And you look perpetually windswept, and keep photos in a suitcase under the sink, ...