diane wald


carolina wren


do i want to go to prague? maybe.

it is always a matter of lunch with clotheslines.

these small things we need.

my husband asks if i am ‘on schedule.’

we consult with his sister about the subjunctive.

in two languages.

and then this morning i am stunned by my forgetfulness, stunned by the surge of botanicals, appalled in general by the suffusion of memories that drowns my forgetfulness, by the memory of profusion and the doubtfulness therein. i love you and i hide from you. of that i can be certain.

i am offended by the depth of my sleep, sleep that is like a deep fall into a deep sweet cavern, and the cavern lined in velvet. the velvet is dark, but it is not black. there is a sheen to the velvet like the shaved spot on the skin of the cat who receives medical treatment. the tenderest spot, the spot steeped in sleepiness of touch. i am intrigued by the depth of my sleep and the condition of my bones when i wake. bones like marshmallow, bones like iron. the iron and the marshmallow fighting. nobody wins.

the day before yesterday i spotted a carolina wren, ascertained its identity in three bird identification books. it has not returned since. it flew from the feeder three times on a direct diagonal to the small green birdhouse on the crab-cherry tree. if there is such a thing. the man who was hired to treat the tree for fungus has been fired. he will not disturb the bird.

and i have written a note to a favorite author to see if she would like some advice. will she answer? and i have written a note to dead james and to dead garth and to dead grace and to dead allen; i have written these notes in my head only, and, like notes that go often to god, they are asking favors. when i cease to ask favors my notes will be answered. i have not written my father.

odd how the spaces look different when they’re always the same.

odd how you wait for me to speak.

odd how i do it.