The other night you reminded me of Joan of Arc; visions, burning crosses, and me following the sound of your voice. Press record. Speak into the camera, watch for the little red light.
Let’s talk about our bleeding hearts.
Tell me again the story of the time you brought water from the well, how your heart was there in the bucket, still beating. Here you are with your rotting bucket, your shirtsleeves torn in two. I remember watching you; I was eating dark chocolate, the kind with sea salt, the kind that makes your mouth sweat. I did not feel beautiful.
What does it mean to call these things by their names? Here we are, telling stories about women and wolves.
An elegy: who would I show it to?
The confessional nature of epistolary words - I tell you all my secrets and you set me free. What am I to do with all this freedom? Remember that time, down by the river, with our pockets full of stones and our mouths closed safe over all the words we wished we had said?
You forget though, how it really ended, how you drove the car into that same river, windows rolled up tight, breath held, eyes closed, and waited for the water to rush in. Or maybe it was the bridge, the shattered barrier. Our bodies suddenly carrion, tossed to the wind, corporeal lightness, our bones picked clean.
Did you know that if a body falls freely, it does not feel it’s own weight?
Come in from the backyard, your hands covered in mud. Dinner is waiting and I am laying on the carpet hoping you will come and put your body across mine. I am wishing on eyelashes for you.
Prayers prayers prayers,
ten thousand little words whispered into cupped hands, and me not knowing how to name the things that are most disquieting - small sacrifices, offerings.
This is a one horse town and you are the horse. You’re the town too, and you know it. You have your dinner, your apples, your chocolate flecked with salt.
All this in return for the names you cannot say.