I don’t care about god, don’t love god, don’t think god has a plan for me. But I most certainly care
about fate and all that happens I’ll have no say in.
When M died, they gave me his blue sweater with holes at the elbows. I keep it on my top shelf, run
my hand over it on slow afternoons.
God is just another word for winter. I’ll always want to unlatch the small glass door in which it’s kept
and touch its soft white fur.
I’m afraid, when what I mean to be is astonished. What we’re left with is a process,
when what I want is a whirring, whatever magic is meant by “an astonishment of blackbirds.”
Aristotle said our actions create our souls, but one doubts it. Non-negotiable fate. Pretty-mouthed
fate. Fate, a lovely blue cramp,
spreading at my waist.
I put in my favorite blue earrings that dangle and flash like tiny bonfires. I catch a cricket in a glass and take her outside. I put the radio on, pull pie dough from the fridge. I’m moving my hands
over things from above.
When I die I’ll go back into the arms of something made of arms. I’ve always felt like a lamb. Tender
and plush. I don’t know why.