A friend said yesterday through the distant phone, that when I first started writing this, I seemed so happy, it seemed to be the next thing. I was sitting in the attic, listening to the trucks through the high black windows. Near midnight. Candles all around, the piano dusty and quiet. Lately, he said, that has been replaced with something else.
I don't know what to say. I sat in a field to write a letter, and when I finished, there was blood on my chest, a bite from some creature. There were fish in the stream, bees that gathered around the trees, children on a school field trip that shouted answers to the ranger's questions. We have a bird nest at our house, they said. Deer path, they said. Robin, they said.
I spend a lot of energy on love, more, probably then I spend on writing. More, probably, then I spend on my friends. More then I spend on myself. I will always sacrifice sleep, dinner, a chapter, a poem. I have been waiting for something my whole life. I have been moving from state to state, turning corners, taking home grocery sacks, trying on shoes, cutting and growing out my hair, putting on jackets and taking them off, writing lines and crossing them black.
I know you are reading this. I know it.
So come on.
I will try to get home before it rains. There is a party tonight and I would like to wear my white dress, the one with the thin thin slip.
