letter Father, I would have followed you into the reeds. Finally, when it was night, I lay curled on the carpet wringing tears from sore lids. You left and in an instant I felt flimsy, like tracing paper ripped from its spine. I felt my own extend, erupt, and contract into an agèd curve. That arch bent my whole being. Why did I feel I couldn’t sleep in my own bed? Comfort is too material, too unjustly gratifying: I wanted to live in anguish. If instead I wandered up some unknown stairway and wept myself tired right there before an unlocked door, all would be surreal, dreamed, and sharp. You were an athlete, I thought, so why not finish the path through the marsh, instead of stopping to scratch; was the itch so intense that the course lost its taste? So caring and yet so selfish you were—discovering the thoughts of the drowned and tracing their lone drift, unshared.

Last updated: March 27th, 2000
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