| You inhabit a district delineated for wobble-headed men and blue- haired women. Outside your window snow shimmers; a suet feeder hangs from a birch waiting for a woodpecker; your darkened room’s a liquid compass whose needle you ride in your dreams as in your wakeful hours. No word intrudes. We’re so far from our beginnings—yours in Ohio, mine in you—exiled from rivalries, resentments, your deforming disappointments. So easy now my hand stroking yours, simple affection carved from the side of the hulk that survived the storms. Could you have found me easier to love if I’d been less suspicious of happiness? I envied you your easy crawl out to the buoy and back, learned the legend of you that ended as I began. Our lives are so much less than what we make of them, or the reverse, your kicking toward weightlessness delivering you to granite carved with your name. Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Okrent. Used with permission of the author. |
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