Sunday, September 27, 2020

Parts of Me Unused to Being Addressed

A light in which other lights die. Openings in the sky through which we convince ourselves divine appeasement matters. This tongue, these ramparts, these lies.

Two day old bread sliced and toasted with olive oil and thyme. The joy of studying memory. Hurricane damage that days later allows soft breezes to reach you on the porch.

What is new vs. what is reborn. She kneels to see if the rip on my knee is fixable or patchable, and later over a shared cup of tea, explains to me the difference. Metaphors arising in frameworks that are themselves metaphors. Are there good reasons for soil depletion?

Noticing one uses "like" more than they once did.

Sitting up with who is not with me, night passing in a blend of prayer and wonder, ending in sleep, one hand tucked beneath Chrisoula's shoulder. Comfort zones.

Sacrament, sacrifice, sacerdotal.

Your lips brushing both my balls as if telling a secret to parts of me unused to being addressed.

How shall we become neighbors, save by refusing competition? Little moth on a blade of grass, fellow monkey hiring a lawyer.

Layer cake, layer hens. Place mats. Peace flags signaling our hopefulness, not quite wrecked yet, not quite forsaken.

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