Take the plunge Head first into the rich lanolin Twenty gallon bags of many wools, waiting
The three day workshop: A roomful of women and fleece Spinning wheels set, a teacher from New Zealand
To craft woolen and worsted Short draft, long draft, twists to Crimp and staple— The wool cards are plied, combs straightened and The ditz comes to play— Cute as a button in horn, center holed for the finishing top— As fiber is spun on hypnotic wheels Mingled talk and laughter
We plunge, hands first into the skeins of warm water Pull out strands of wet yarn Into the outdoors, draped O’s on the bushes A calligraphy of branch to weave
I flee city, virus, loss, spin, re-compass, choose west. Forest, stream, sinuous, deep, I camp, rig rod, fish. Cast Gray Ghosts
to the far side, expect no strike. I begin to breathe, hope hope revives. Presume zip, nada, zilch, live frugally, on surprise.
I daydream I die, come back not old, not spent, eager to learn to fish again. The sun weighs down, light dives maroon from gold. Dusk swallows tamarack,
aspen, cedar, pine. Riffles gone to eddies swirl to black. I trace path back to tent, the remains of fire, accept dark coals, revel in the ebb.
the etymology of the word illness, or ill, traces back to the old Norse word for evil. during her treatment for cancer, my mother had fevered dreams of stabbing, of murdering really, her own waste after they removed her necrotic colon and fixed a bag to her hip. a hospital therapist questioned her and deemed the dreams suicidal ideation. they strapped her arms to the bedframe for the remainder of the day.
beauty is that which returns us to innocence. i admire too much that which, like a poem, risks its own obscurity. i drank to avoid dreams and escape the unreal. which one is ill, and therefore evil, the affliction or the afflicted? someone once told me that the eyes, in the dark, with the eyelids closed, still make every effort to see.…
All day long my phone has been ringing. Like an insect rubbing its legs together to sing. Calls coming in from area codes I don’t recognize. No one there when I answer. All day long it has been ringing. Like a bird who only remembers one song. I miss the days when it could be quieted by gently placing it back in its cradle instead of having to stab at it with my finger over and over again. No one there when I answer. It didn’t used to be like this. I used to sleep through the night. Not now. Now I wake up every two hours thinking I hear my mother thumping her cane on the floor after a fall, and when I open my eyes I never recognize the room I’m in.…
