It was easier when it was brighter outside, no metal to wash out of blood. My skin, ribbed & diced. The lives that I coppered from bone, bone from dust. Meanwhile, rows & rows of unpicked corn. Meanwhile, the patio where I saved a child from drowning. The story where I become more than girl. Anyway, who could say anything about glory? So maybe there is something more to summer than just dust & creation. Something with my name at its lips, something with husks & sharp teeth & perfect pitch. I still remember all my children. Each day I reorder the animals by size & shape. Each day the same story with the empty hands & the silhouette by the lake. It is dark out. It is dark out & I want the version of the myth where I have warm clothes & a place to sleep by the fire. I deserve all the love I can get. All the songs, too.
Sure. I too grow tired of motherhood. In China teeth under the mountain. Birds & film reels with my face. The whales have taught me the secret to flight. Nighttime & all the things I was supposed to say, washed out with the color of your eyes. Washed out. I am so tired of the movie where I lay a tortoise to rest at the altar. A myth told in technicolor & good lighting. The worst kind of lie. I am trying to talk about the redundancy of bodies. Fame like cathedrals & staircases. Fame like so many birds shot out of the ocean. Every morning the sky & all of its reasons to move. You with all of your reasons not to. Meanwhile the film flickering out of time. Meanwhile your eyes. Everything looks so much closer from home.
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