July

For a month, I do not write. You needn't point it out, I know what this means. Last time it happened there was too much regular work, too much regular world, the glow of poetry got sort of wiped off my edges, there's a better word for worn in my mother tongue, do you think we'd be better off not knowing there were options out there that would fit us more right? 

For a month, I do not write. I speak nothing of fireflies at twilight, of rolling hills or high tide, of late runs along the East River with newly caught fish gasping in the fresh air. Say nothing of how the medications weave their way into my blood stream and I begin crying unexpectedly one morning in a current of people and realize, the feelings are back. Like my insides are no longer filled with Nothing, and everything returns all at once, in a jumble. The jumble makes me remember stories and how I want to let them bloom. I have not told you of the small graces. 

For a month, I do not write. 

Perhaps that is all behind us, now.