Why He Refused to Discuss It
The evening swells, white moths so thick it seems as if a snowfall had fluttered itself
dry and found the air erratically uplifting. We cannot be concerned is what the grass is
whispering, and I’m happy to have lost something of myself to it. I’ve come to a position
of acceptance, pouring over a dusty chair.
A map of her hair spread out till it reached the scented ear posteriors and then
documented an experience outside the room. Perhaps I perched on a thimble if a thimble
was there. I trembled. I moved and moved again. I was a small voice traveling to an event
of its own since it no longer belonged to someone.
I felt my mouth become an ear without any preconceived territory. Silence
breathed its question as if it were the only one. I wanted an unobstructed view. I no
longer needed sentencing, but I could accept it all the same.
The body is just the other house out back, I thought. I must have been swept away
by the kind of mind that makes brooms. I used to be who I thought I was. I used to be me
when I wasn’t worth being. Then I separated myself from my expectations. I was a dress
handkerchief that didn’t have any practical considerations, a potential held in the breast
pocket, accomplishing something merely stylish, without reference to its original cause.
I had become airy and reflective, so I decided to admit that it’s not that easy to tell
zombies from sales clerks in the used love store. The air smells like fish and hairy legs.
I’m trying to delineate the dimensions of what it smells like so that its indecency
becomes my decency.
The curtain of odors rolls over and flaps out of its threads I remember saying to
myself. I tip my head and try to lick the fat knuckle of it, the only endless flower I know,
the slow visual love-song of a bee. You can’t escape it, but it can escape you, bumbling
dutifully from one lovesick rose to another. Or it could be an ant no one notices inside
one bloom of the beautifully wrapped gift, falling out, and then soon enough you’re the
only one left who can bite.
Before this, I answered with reasons and confused myself with now and then, so
this time I positioned upon the next. I have a goal and when I get there I keep going.
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 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.