My fetish is silence. My computer is off. I have read the noise. The brain sorts. Biohazard butterfly still inside me. I could tell you that I am okay, that these two months have been hard but we’ll make it through, like we do, like we do. But I won’t.
I am more interested in the boundaries of disaster. I saw the edge of Hurricane Matthew from the mountain top and it was swirling south over the home I had abandoned: catastrophe has its own shape (or shapes?). It is happening, now, otherwhere. It is happening in slow motion. Hear the reassurances—that is the first clue.
I cried after the election. Did you take a shower too?
I am not okay. I know it is a crime to admit weakness in America—unless you splay yourself like a sacrifice, strip off the skin, become unsalvageable—but that’s not my style. Instead, I…
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