Drought

I adore the rusty colors of the tree outside my window. It's true. Autumn reminds me of you, even though I see you in other seasons. I think of you often in October, when it's warm and the sky is still screaming blue, with no hint of the rain we so desperately need. I'm waiting for autumn the way I once waited for you. I take a pill and curl up at night instead of waiting with my breath held to see you walk by.

Rust is the word, and the world, forever and ever, amen. It shows me that nothing is forever, that the very air can eat holes and pits in the strongest of creations. Air and sky and waves are trying to dash you out of my memories, but you remain, stubborn and silent.

The greenest trees are outmatched by this drought, by people who still are watering their lawns in the morning and in the evening, disregarding the freshwater clams who died in dry creeks, the frogs that no longer sing in the night behind my open windows.

I have rescued plants from discount sales, I have saved fish from drowning and from dinner. But I have not spoken to you in so long, not with honesty and the love you deserve, even now.

When you died, the cliche struck me as obscene. You are a hole I cannot fill, and I am a puzzle of only edges. If you had left me for someone, at least I could hate you. I am familiar with hate, intimate and rough and salted with ash. I am less familiar with these empty spaces that taste like blood and regret.

The things we learn as we grow older are not as important as I expected, and the things that I learned when I was young, from fairy tales and stories, are the ones that have never changed.

All the Cool Kids

We interrupt this blog's suspicious silence for some important news!

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Thank you for always supporting me in my crusades.

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause.

Sleep well, beloved. 

Menu

An isolated heart is a terrible thing. You can salvage it in several ways. My favorite is sliced, thinly, and grilled. Serve with hot mustard.

If your morning is tedious, you can use this recipe as filler while performing other tasks. After grinding chocolate, throw in the day's spices. Your heart will be much improved with proper seasoning.

One heart cannot serve two without some tricky maneuvering. Be sure that you account for all guests, and have a warm, damp cloth at the ready for each.

Today's recipe calls for the following ingredients:
one heart, washed, pressed, and emptied,
one cup hot chocolate, ground and fashioned from the shards of dreams that woke you in a sweat,
one kitchen, cleared of sharp physical objects,
one knife, rescued from the aforementioned clearance and sharpened, carefully, on your tongue.
Assorted spices, extracts, and impossibilities.

Cut bravely around the heart, severing its grasping tendrils without paying attention to its cries. Pat it fondly and wipe your hands clean. Sip chocolate thoughtfully while you gaze out the window, wondering why the birds have gathered in that one tree, and why you cannot accomplish the things you have set out to do. Grind teeth and notice you have left marks in the cutting board with your fingernails, again.

Set your heart on a figured platter. Figures of Bosch seem appropriate in most cases, but a willow-ware platter can be quite elegant with a few garnishes.

Season your heart thoughtfully. Spice is a very subjective thing, but several testers agree that the combination of vanilla, ground coffee, assorted chiles, and coarsely ground black pepper is a fine and traditional flavor. Do not be afraid to experiment or try something new. Cover the heart with banana leaves and allow to rest in a dim room, with a tolerable red wine and a well-loved paperback.

When you are tired of waiting for your heart to quiet, remove your salvaged knife from beneath the pile of lifestyle magazines and test it by scoring a single line on the wall. Do not lose track of time while contemplating the number of lines indicating every dour morning spent questioning your existence. Set this fever aside, and move on.

Slice the rested and spiced heart into an equal amount of thin strips. Each person should receive the same amount; if an odd number, consume the extras over the sink, silently. Tears are optional.

Arrange heart thoughtfully and with care.
Serve raw, with bread and wine, after the salad. Do not be offended if a guest refuses your heart; after all, it is bitter.

Bitter.

--
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175754

Slit-tongued

It is not yet spring. The urge rises from within,
  as it always has, to paint my skin in cherry-
  blossom shadows on pure ivory powder.
  Black lines and hard edges of serrated leaf
  serve as contrast, serve as a fence to keep
  it all in. I cannot feel alive in winter, I wither
  in summer's heat. Let me be a dancer in the
  bright autumn and a maiden in flowering
  spring, where the sparrows nest in peony
  branches, where the petals fall to matcha-
  scented winds, where gardens are arranged,
  seeming endless, until the end.

ἀλήθεια

The dead do not rest,
easy in their beds, with peaceful smiles
or in the comfort of ash.

They will walk up to your barbecue
and sniff,
and grin,
and before you know it
they have eaten the rising scent of burning charcoal,
the fumes of cooking meat.

There is no scent of lavender in their action.

When you are waiting at the bus stop,
the cigarette in your hand sends out tendrils
of a signal.
They will blow smoke rings
while you are still trying to catch a breath.

They will lick at leftovers and
drink the vapors rising from your
gimlet, your sour, your perfect old-fashioned.

The idea of your drink remains, but the fervor is gone.

The dead stick around. They are
not gone from us, not only memory.
And they are restless.
They walk the halls of our heads
at all hours, while we are still waiting

for unproven verdicts to pass down.