On why every time I read the news I hear the phone ringing telling me my mother is dead; why we have to care about black men being killed even before they come back for the jews again; why every aching grief echoing behind an unnecessary loss is keening, a constant toll at the backbeat of my mind, these days:
I remember the crash the sound of many things falling a low thud of flesh hitting the floor although I was across an ocean, I felt this coming apart felt it all rock and heave, all the boxes we had so carefully, so fearfully stacked crookedly up lining the walls in our broken home to make them thicker maybe we need this for sometime, keep stashing more hidden behind doors There's something about it all being over that makes the reckoning easier maybe easy is wrong, rude even to say but inevitable breaking down an old shed once I pried out the bent nail holding the whole damn thing and watched dessicated boards buckle down topple under the rusted roof, snap old struts this is our inheritance And I can't stop thinking about that feeling the sick snap inside of things falling apart, the center (which was never true) cannot hold, and everything covered in a fine dust of we're fine fine it's fine shaken out, beaten til the particles rise up lit in a sun beam, a dancing devilish whorl of all the layers we've trudged through |
Writing, writingA blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc! Archives
October 2017
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All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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