To begin with the end, what the rain did not uncover. A teacup overflows, we call it a spill; a riverbed overflows, we call it a flood, what it is to be swept away. Great is the power of steady misrepresentation, writes Darwin. I like things that light up on their own— the headlights on my new car when we drive under a bridge. I like how it doesn't distinguish between different types of darkness. Darwin again: I am not the least afraid to die. Well, I burned my thumb last night on the kettle, distracted by the buzzing of my phone— my mother again. There is still some pleasure in dissection—what admirably well-adapted movements the tip of a root possesses. I like things that come apart easily in my hands—dried leaves, clumps of sugar— Do you remember, before wireless, when to unplug meant getting on your knees to jerk the cord from the wall? Now if you want to disconnect, you have to ask nicely. Off/on; let go/resurrect—the game your mind plays in dreams, holding him up—no, a simulacrum slipping its cage in my consciousness. Daytime calls me to wakefulness, its dog home from the walk, from the bewildering folly of weather. Turns out these purple statices on the dresser stand for remembrance but I don't need any help remembering. They are right in front of me—they have fully loaded. Copyright © 2017 Katie Willingham. Used with permission of the author. |
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