Friday, May 1, 2009


I say "I want to sled right through this." I want it to turn from ice to snow, to form powder around the windowsills, to be capable of blowing away when the sky sneezes. I want it to be meltable by the sun's unavoidable warmth. Yes, there is a glacier in my chest. Last night, through the tinkering dark streets near the bus stop, it started to shift and break apart; shards of migrating ice pressed against the gaps in my ribcage and made it difficult to breathe. When I made it onto the bus and the hugs and hands no longer cluttered my mind and my mouth was free to stop muttering words of betrayal and hurt, the dizziness overtook me, the sadness expanded so palpably in my chest that I marveled I was still standing. Thick breath and tears conspired to exit my body simultaneously. I took a seat and felt the floor of the bus beneath my cold feet, felt the way my toes filled the space of my shoes, and it stabilized my thoughts. But the sadness did not ebb. I really get the phrase 'sad sack' now because there seems to be a viscousness to sadness and it lives in the body in this way that makes the flesh literally a cellular sack containing it. I want to have it drained from this sack of mine, to create a little tear in one corner (perhaps where my heel meets my ankle, so often chafed by inflexible indifferent shoes) and as I walk around the streets in these bleak nights, devoid of verdant anything, I will leave a trail of wetness that is black as tar and as dense as imploded galaxies. With each step my heart will have more room to expand, 'till by the time I reach my home I will float straight through the locked gates and into my bedroom, my body a zeppelin so full of air and light and hope.