I’ve logged more experience than most with simplicity and the complexity you discover inside simplicity, minimalism and asocial behavior, endurance and landscape.
Here is the truth: I think some deep wisdom inside me (a) sensed the stress, (b) was terrified for me, and (c) gave me something new and hard to focus on in order to prevent me from lapsing into a despair coma — and also to keep me from having a jelly jar of wine in my hand.
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My love for you is a sun inside my chest.
It burns like shingles, wrings tears from my eyes
like the hands of a tough old woman washing
clothes in a tin tub. You’re as toxic as poke salad,
your words a swarm of bees. You haunt me
like a chain-clanking ghost, yet I welcome you
like the mailman. You’re a zeppelin in disguise,
the zip line to disaster. I need you like bad brakes,
a stick of dynamite, loose bricks in the walk.
But step into a room and my heart bumps its mouth
against the bowl of my ribs like a starving
goldfish. You scissor-cut my will, turn my brain
to shredded wheat. Look at me once, and my pot
begins to boil. Look at me twice, and the dog
of my desire becomes a junkyard beast —
though the feral cat in me hungers
to call your body home.
Terri Kirby Erickson