I've been reading Anne Sexton, thinking about influence, and sadness, both hers and mine. I don't know what to do with my grief anymore. I have these strange hopes and memories chasing hurt and loneliness and brokenness. It's been a sad few months. I know I've been self-medicating in books and miles. Finally, recently, in friends & family. We used to talk about a more perfect openness, but you are farther than you have ever been & I was never as close as I thought.
Over the past few weeks I've read a number of things that meant something to me. These are a few of them:
"we are the people who held these things; a home is meant to be a container, these things these people can no longer be contained,"
from "Re: House(s)," by Martha Collins
"Vos sos el Dios de los pobres,
el Dios humano y sencillo,
el Dios que suda en la calle,
el Dios de rostro curtido.
You are the God of the poor,
the human and simple God,
the God who sweats in the street,
the God of the weather-beaten face,"
from the song "Nicaraguan Peasant Mass" by Carlos Mejia Godoy, quoted in "The God of the Weather-Beaten Face," by Martin Espada
"All over their arms
wings
did not descend to wrap them up like babies
As promised
still
there is a lot to pray to
on earth,"
from "Scary Parents," by Michael Dickman
"I want to be with everyone here,
with their lattes and mochas,
while the water rises
and the top of the Golden Gate bridge is blinking in the surf,
when the aliens land and eat us,
as soldiers from another country drag us by the hair from our yards,
while the valley is flooded and all its talk about vastness and god has drowned,
I want to know their names, mis amigos, their hands reaching out toward mine,
when the flights are rerouted away from our loved ones,
lets all lift a glass or child into the air, openmouthed
as we watch the final cruelty performed simultaneously
with the last kindness,"
from "Amigos," by Matthew Dickman
1 comment:
love u very much
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