Nightly
While waiting to fall asleep and escape myself, I think of my feet, then my ankles and calves. Each part grows briefly aware at being recognized, like being called on in school. If I think about my feet – cold, with a blistered bunion – I don’t think of the future coiling around me. My mind is so easily led. If I think of a field of wheat in September, tawny and rippling, can I set it aflame? Will the fire kneel after it consumes every stalk? Can I conjure an expanse of water so large there’s no shore in sight, waves swelling gently until dawn? Water understands restlessness. If I keep my eyes closed, I can feel those waves in my breath.
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Under a Cloudless Sky
Yesterday at the track meet, just yards from the finish, our slim girl in her orange jersey left the race to lie down in the grass, sobbing. The announcer did not note this small heartbreak in our midst. We waited thirty seconds, then thirty seconds more. The gun fired to start the next heat. When a coach finally reached our girl, he knelt and put a hand on her shoulder. Even from a distance, we could see him help her breathe, by raising his palms and filling his own lungs, as an example.
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Aubade with Selfies
I’m waiting for the swirling snow to stop and finally reveal the horizon. Right this minute, I’m caught in a cloud: I can’t see the field beyond the trees and if I could, it would also be white. My niece has just landed in Paris, and sits in a white chair in front of a gilt-framed mirror, sipping coffee. Her updates find me almost instantly, here in the midst of the snow. Now I can’t even see the trees.