HANDS CAN LUNGE AT HEARTS
I haven't felt right since about tenth grade. All that
English Lit. bullshit; I was Wordsworded to death
and it shows : reveries of this and that, elegies and
graveyards, serious and doleful answers to serious
and doleful things. Nothing ever lightened up - ever.
Even here, those Salem Witches and those Maypoles
of Merriment, things were kept solemn and sincere.
Crotchety old History teachers, crumbling away while
they spoke of doom and trouble; English teachers, stumbling
their words over lachrymose things. It only got worse after
that - the college folk demanded even less but spoke more.
All I had to do was listen and pretend. I learned the space
between the words of meaning often meant more
than the meanings themselves.
-
Now, I sit, crocheting my headband with wondrous things
like butterfly wings. I decipher, reorganize and chant as I
move along my way. No nettlesome disclaimers needed :
Jezebel, I am not the one you noted. Hyman, I am truly
not your brother. Let me listen to the bells instead.
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