The madness up in me, a growl on the inside of my skin ready to be let loose on the kids looking at magazines behind me in the big box store. Coffee shop visit after therapy, and so grateful I am for the routine. Clouds dreamy and fast changing all week.
In July once I was pregnant, the father nothing more than a boy in too big for him skin. That is a myth of me like a linen kerchief in back of a closet in abandoned house on a field somewhere, full with wild flowers and green hills. Clouds fat and white and inviting as pillows in the sky. Linen delicate, the barely there stains for reasons you cannot know cause tenderness in your heart when you touch them. My vacation is here, it is July again and I did not go to Brasil.
The man in the corner talks to himself. It is off-putting in a way that is brooding and translates several feet around him as a palpable radius of danger. In Laguna the street kids were chummy, and the two homeless folks with the most flamboyant single-sided conversations were people who also chatted regularly with me. We were on first name basis.
I am thinking about Laguna a lot lately, about the importance of having a room of one’s own. A desk comes, and I spend the first day of my second week off from work crafting poems and parceling words. The bookshelf built into the wall is now full on the top shelf with novels I will read and complete, each one a piece of fruit meant to slake a thirst that also makes me feel clear and clean. The fan drones sleepy and content and I am delivered to a peace I may have known only in childhood. An empty ease, with space enough to hold promise. There is so much, there once was anyhow–to still to be felt into, plucked from the air.
In therapy I finally bring up Kevin and the boys from the beach, and near the end mention in an off hand way that Kukta just died the other week. I am wow’d still that there is nothing there, no bruises left or felt. Just the facts, another one dead. Same ol myth. She reminds me the goal is for thoughts and feelings to align. I just want to get here, to write. To trust myself unto my rhythm, to take my time.
Scars are scars I tell myself, and can go for years with the tissue numb, just under thumb. Other times there is meltiness, stain. There is gasping for air and the feeling you may choke. I never know what I am going to know until it is time. So I write poems. In one I remind myself: the axiom what you resist persists means that to resist is to deny.