January 12, 2021

wings

Things are maybe getting extreme. We are buying inflatable costumes on the internet,
flinging ourselves onto the snow for a dance party at which we are the sole attendees.
We’ve begun putting on accents while we ladle stew from the slow cooker, make up songs
while slices of bread are toasting. At the last full moon, we raced across the street
so rabidly, I thought the neighbors might have wondered where the fire was, 
were squinting through their windows for any evidence of the blaze. You’d be right to say
we’re losing it - if “it” means any passing resemblance to our formerly decorous
doppelgängers. But you know what they say about desperate times. We are flagrant, now,
with the theater of the broken-hearted, pinching our cheeks to the rosier hue of a distant
spring, flapping stubborn, untenable wings toward any tomorrow we can find.