8.22.23

I came to writing because it came to me first. As I've said, with the force of a sudden wind, when I was on my knees praying for something better, writing was the voice on the other side that wasn't an escape but an invitation deeper into the world. I came to writing because I was a jealous whore, because I was hurt, because I stayed up all night waiting for her to call. Writing came to me in the body of a boy, and in the mirror when I wished to be a boy who was also a perfect woman. Writing came to me when I woke up in the morning and I started a poem I would never finish, that line: "Was it your job to become a girl?..." The kind of answer that everyone knows but I find unbearable like a memoir I skip to the end chapter to figure out if I was happy and in love after all. 

I came to writing on that starry night night, alone, with the wind flying around me and so many stones and fallen trees in my path. The writing found me in the dark. Tumbling in the ocean, I hit my head. I bit my teeth, which were crumbling underneath the strain of the years. Eating at the table with you I thought I knew eternity in a day. Standing in the kitchen kissing you, I knew this was my first eternity, and like every other eternity it would end soon. I slid my hand around your waist, under your shirt. I was trying to reach you that one last time. Writing found me in bed with you who would not look at me. My angel, I thought. In the motion of everything, I forgot how to write. Once, everything glowed and now I must learn again to live with this kind of ordinary forgiveness. 

I forgive the words. I forgive the sound of music. I forgive this bread. I forgive this desk. I forgive my shoes. I forgive this appetite, this thirst. I forgive these lips. I forgive the not-knowing. I forgive this despair. I forgive my want. I even forgive you, and the sky with its unpredictable rain.