EMILY KENDAL FREY
|
who doesn’t love a creature making light? I let one catch me, make a nest to keep us, then the rains come & blow it all down, I almost drown. Why do I want to wreck the boat of my life? In the distance an island dotted by peach trees, fuzzy bottoms to grab & eat. Feeding oneself isn’t love, I don’t think— survival means we lay down enough need to make it out of the present moment. All the great thinkers eventually grew still, fat fruit rotting at their feet. Those who are cruelest are also close to the gods, maybe closest—what is real is not always good. Firefly snuffed out. When the screen door slams you can feel their eyes on you. We don’t get to choose much but wait what about this heart beat? I receive no message regarding my affection—you must be there but the sounds, temporarily, are mute. After I broke my contract with darkness I watched a wasp die in my living room, pink light. Life became not easier but brighter, I mean I could see better the edge of mystery. Glowing peach, bobbing out to sea. |