I hope to sit with you one day,
in a content sort of way.
Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,
But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,
Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,
And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.
Snow-studded sycamore with a bird in, with a brain in, with a soul in.
How lucky are we with souls in the trees above us and the air around,
with souls in the soil beneath us and the flesh among us.
This is what I have made – and it made little difference.
This is what I have made – little difference.
This is what I have made.
This is what I have.
Grow up to be gentle,
be a citizen,
be a listener,
be a shield, and be shielded in return,
be a song, and be sung to in return.
Be a helping hand, not a stomping boot – not a striking fear kind of guy,
not a “it was her own fault” kind of guy,
not a complicit kind of guy,
not a dangerous and sly kind of guy, who’ll expect everything and deserve nothing but to be taught a lesson.
This is the first thing that comes to mind:
that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.
This is the second thing that comes to mind:
the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.
This the the third thing that comes to mind:
my poor little dead bird in the soil.
This is the forth:
I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.