by Marisa Siegel
The comfort I took in living by the ocean. The way the waves steady me. There was ocean here, and then ocean there. The ocean is not here.
The sunshine. The quiet, steady sunshine requiring nothing from me. Reassuringly unreal blue.
I’ve circled back to it quicker than I’d hoped: Unreal. How important is that? What is gained in the hard concrete is debatable.
It is not my intention to consistently be under attack. This was not the narrative line I’d intended.
What was left there. What was found here. What was lost there. What was lost here.
The reassurance I am waiting for is not coming. I am not pretending today. I am not naïve, ever, but I am still easily misled despite myself. (To spite myself.)
My window here looks out onto a forest. I whisper fiercely at the trees. I remember the words and I whisper.
My window there and the fuchsia bougainvillea.
There is comfort in the concrete hardness but perhaps it is not mine. Today I am full of question (and am stating fact).