The State of Things

Today, avocado, applesauce, chocolate pudding. Meetings, coffee, naps. A new book. News from a friend. An introduction to the role of the brain’s limbic system in the creation of memory. A wondering why. The heart carried carefully in the mouth; speech might dislodge it, swallow it whole, or spit it into someone’s lap. Careful, careful what you reveal. A disappeared object discovered. A discussion of how experience is lodged, literally re-membered, dissected and digested. Dates made, a potluck with new friends (a party: Ronan in his element), plans plans plans. And this poem by my friend Jessica Garrett:

The state of things

She is suddenly convinced

(before a sturdier thought

can push to the head

of the line) that she knows the answer, that if only

she had plants

(the room for an instant grows

green and comforting, vines curl down the walls

like pretty hair caught with leaves)

if only there were plants

everywhere, never

thinking, but breathing

the same light, needing

to be fed, hanging from the ceiling

as thought it were a small sky, cupped close

to their sinless leaves–

maybe then

(the room empties; the walls

pale; the furniture is sewn with dead leaves)

safety and health would reach out for her too, hold her

as a mother would — as though

it might never be otherwise.

From Fire Pond (University of Utah Press, 2009)



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