January 18, 2022

outlines

I want to love the weather, the catastrophic sheet of ice on the lawn, the deck,
sagging under its own weight. I want to love the scar on my arm, the divot
in the middle of my forehead. I want to love the vigils I keep over my own body,
watching for distress signals. Instead, I woke to a frozen pipe in the upstairs shower,
to a map of my country growing purple with virus, to the news of a man who died
crossing Lincolnville Avenue and the man who was driving the car that hit him.
Sometimes there is just sadness, the walloping of grief like a tide that refuses retreat.
Sometimes you can’t pull any sweetness out of the burn pile. The weather descends
and only the faint outlines of a place remain. And yet, two nights ago, a full moon rose
out of the ocean. There are miracles still possible on this broken planet.