I saw her scar today,
a prideful star basking in its curtain raising.
(Her black blouse had slipped too low.)
I knew about the cancer, she had told me.
I don’t know why I am surprised by that flash of flesh,
that red reminder of…everything!
I am not a mother. I have no mother.
I don’t want to stay here.
My interpretation of everything, tired refrain.
Some accuse me of morbidity, their assertion supported by a scaffold of dark twigs; my fondness for cemeteries and storms, my ubiquitous clothing choice in the color without color, my reliance upon heavy literature, my collection of dying words. I wish that I might lend them my lens, an owl bestowing her nighttime sight to the worshippers of the sun, that they might see beyond the limits of labels to the radiant core of all—Beauty.
Who is it? Who is it?
~Billy the Kid
Does nobody understand?
~James Joyce
The sadness will last forever.
~Vincent van Gogh
I am the spoiler who loves a rainy day. And yet, I find myself wearied by this February grey. A Miss Havisham grey, wasting and unforgiving, a punitive grey intent upon freezing time so as to preserve pain.
While I sit, hypnotized by outside gloom (introspecting, yet outside of Presence), a teacher appears. Eleven buds materialize on a single orchid stem in my office.
