The writing about the writing is the writing. Let me pick up at the beginning let me believe the circle let me push past the absences let me bury my dead. It reads like a prayer but isn’t.
July is furious with me. I woke up this morning and the scar from the graft was burning after months of calm. I note the dates as they arrive, but refrain from counting them all at once.
July has stuffed herself down my throat and I am breathless. There hasn’t been a single day this summer where the sky’s turned California-blue, whereas I am all California-blue.
When it hit, did you remember that you said you’d never survive to see it? And after, did you wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t have?
Apologies for all of those moments when I didn’t, but never for those when I did.