my word for today is hard-hearted.
the rain and the wind are hard-washing the neighborhood. one window started leaking, i let the rain in okay but the wind comes with it. they are wedded to one another. marriage has always been bullshit. the soggy book on the shelf used as a barrier for obdurate weather. i use up all the words i can find in the dry spine of the dictionary, poke around in there with my compass and my flashlight until the backdoor blows open and i have to get up to nail it shut again.
there are at least two words for everything. i guess i'm bent on the weather, storm-watch gusting to ninety miles per hour, coming in from the coast through the side door, knocking people over, headed for the rockies. bent on my refusal to bend over, i roll up a threadbare beach-towel and sponge the rain from the cracks in the window. i procrastinate curtains. i taste the ocean in the bucket i catch it in. my tough skin soft and salty and untugged.
every morning i think, "maybe i'll build a bridge today." i think, "that tree that keeps me is going to snap in half," or "my word for today is hard-hearted". i file my round things to straight and sharp. i chisel myself to a point, my body hard, just a tool. i ache somewhere hot in the middle and press cool chamomile words against it. water piles itself against concrete with nowhere to go.
i am writing this as an unmarked letter i'll send down the stormdrain.
i am about to get very wet. i am about to get salt in my eyes. i am about to never be dry again. i am married to this, imposter winter, all my best trees snap in half, fling their birds across the sky.
tomorrow i will build the bridge.
.
