The small silences are everything.
Nothing but silence,
this breath.
This inhaling of life,
this mouthing open a crisp apple.
In the beginning
someone I love
said
they would like to catch the virus
because
it would link them to everyone else,
burning from feverish
body to body:
do we only know
connection
in pathology?
If I unravel again, I hope to do it better. There’s a half-hearted, pitiful wretchedness to my unraveling. I could’ve been an icon, a patron saint, something cultish to lost youth instead of merely a has-been insomniac…
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We move and move and work and work and gain learning and accolades and bleed ourselves and are not filled. We cultivate veins of steel and nerves of ice, bones of hard wood and cut out sensitive, cut out softness…
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The ultrasound burrows into memory like an old smell I can’t name. What is the smell of fullness in the throat? Or cereal left in milk too long, the O’s blurry at the edges? The walls of the clinic are papered with salmon-colored florals. I am aware of our dumb outfits—Aaron in a Sex Pistols shirt, me in a thrifted gingham sundress.
A nurse calls, “Catherine?”
I Thought You Loved Me was inspired by the need for catharsis. Usually I discourage using public art to work out one’s feelings, but maybe I’ve been wrong all this time?
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