Last Thursday I took G to the ER because it had become apparent that there was a mental health crisis in the offing, and I still haven’t figured out how to talk about that day beyond saying that it sucked. It sucked, guys. We spent six hours at that hospital, and most of them went toward waiting. And he’s okay, is doing much better, is back to himself or at least much closer, and I think I am too, but I also think I’m kidding myself and will fall apart as soon as it’s safe to. So I would like someone to take care of me, please. I would like the all-clear.
Get up. Get up and unwreck your dress, unpunish the vase of blushing peonies. Gather the thousand ants let loose from each busy bloom. Shake the glass from your hair and ravel your stockings. Restring all the bright beads of your necklace, which clatter across the entryway like teeth.
Britt Ashley, “Advice on Leaving Your Own Crime Scene Gracefully,” published in The Offing
I am hungry
I am a bullet
I am a sign of rapture — a two-headed birth, blood from the faucet
I am fog-built
I am searchlight
I am nothing when not in motion,
I am fed on new earth
I am a wild animal bowing to my nature
GennaRose Nethercott, from “Dear Fox, Dear Barn,” published in The Offing