Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Sex for my Wounded Heart

The heart does not actually break - being a muscle - and yet, the heart breaks. As night falls, bats begin caressing the sky with leathery wings. Neither God nor a message from God, but starlight reflected in a shallow pool.

Stop seeking agency in all things! She notices my quiet, which I am too engrossed in to violate by comforting her. The structure of the relationship, the fluidity of the need. 

You move a certain way, you have a certain style, and it moves me in ways I like being moved. I work quietly through late afternoon, turning over soil where the squash plants will go, tomorrow or the day after. Swallows circle overhead, childhood does not end. 

Butter yellow pickups. I remember enjoying early kisses and holding hands but then came a closing up as if there were something to be ashamed of or defended against. Ducks arrow along the river at dusk, beautiful and strong.

While certain people come, certain people go. When I look for the next sentence, there is nothing there, and yet the project demands another sentence, so this will have to do. Arnica for my back, sex for my wounded heart, and a couple or five ice-cold Narragansetts for the soul.

Flames lick the sky. To be together while a thousand miles apart is what miracle according to what God? You insist that I matter and so I do. 

There are no sins! Late but not too late I go back to the old work, pulling it together for the private audience, not calling it art, letting the Lord be my Guide, and so forth.

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