3.29.22

What I admire the most about your writing is the way your words breathe. There is a breath, considered, and a rhythm that assures me each word is taken care of. I get the sense you are listening when you write. It is safe to be a word, among other words, in a sentence written by you. Maybe that is a use for poetry, to be a refuge for words and breath and what brought them here together. 

Looking at my own writing I feel as if I am always rushing off the page to somewhere else. I can't breathe. I hate editing. I hate looking at the evidence of presence, of a rumpled bed left unfolded by a friend visiting from out of town. It's 3 PM and the way the afternoon light looks on their striped sheets is unbearable. 

What's next when I arrive to where I have been trying to go? I call out every name I know and nobody replies. When I take a breath, I, I, I, I,  ----

fall off the bike, careen down the mountain, away from from the stray dogs, into the typhoon - 

lay awake in bed, an ache between my shoulder blades. Looking at the shadows of the cars passing down the street, I knew the future was on her way and that I must get up to meet her. 

go to the florist to buy a bouquet for my mother, catch a glimpse of myself in the swinging glass door. For a moment my father is in the room - framed by roses, carnations and peace lilies - 

A strange thought comes to mind: What woman is not worth the price of flowers? 

I carry the bouquet out of the store and into the rain. Now I am trying to think of something true to say. 

My mother loves me. She wants me to stay for dinner tonight. Every day we have less days together and I won't do anything to change that.

I'm stuck on this: the price of flowers, of women, of rain, of time. 

I, I, I, I ----