Long Overdue Criticism of Edna
Something is pouring into you. Something is spilling. And as you begin allowing it,
do you think, “Nothing could have prepared me for the experience of Edna?”
This is something else entirely because when it walks past its pile of junk, it thinks
only, “That’s my pile of junk.”
As if you had been sitting in the street where the parade was passing, the local dogs
yapping at the horses, the tired clowns drifting like ghosts, the calliope wheezing like a
stricken cow . . . And you had experienced exactly that. Nothing more. Nothing else.
Is the cup from which you have been drinking the wine small enough to give you
Now sunlight soft enough to read us pours into the idea of Edna. Not really a lover
but the idea of a lover. Not really you but an idea you had about yourself. When every
day says today.
Because impossibly its wonder grows, continually revealing itself like a black
handkerchief of fall blackbirds turning and twisting in the cool air. That part that doesn’t
“think.” The wonderful part that takes you home. The part that makes anything less than
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2013. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily: Burrow Guide.