Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Born Stumbling

And so the night passes. I end up howling with bears somewhere below the old pasture. Owls are amused when I imitate them - and chickadees confused - but the bears always go silent and pull away. Oh well.

Somewhere around three a.m., Chrisoula comes out and moves the bottle away from me and touches my hand and doesn't speak. It's hard when you can't see any stars. My God, do the dead ever leave us? People are always asking me how to write.

The dog crawls out from under the lilac bush at the sight of her. Sentences hover just out of reach. He was so drunk he couldn't find the pond but only wandered in circles, bumping into pines and tripping over rocks. I slurred a sorry thank you to whoever it was got me home.

It happens but rarely. Sometimes you have to get in your car and just drive. She calls after many weeks apart and asks if we can talk. Poetry books stacked higher than my bureau slip over, notes spill.

Even hungover, I'm up before most anyone. Hot coffee and a few hits of P.'s cigarette, admiring his new front loader. I was born stumbling. Was born broken, longing for atonement.

No comments:

Post a Comment