Sunday, March 22, 2015


Joy flecked with garnet or with turquoise;
grief that persists; after every iteration 
the distress is deeper laid.
I find that I have less and less to say. 

The anger subsides, and the past takes on an air 
of inevitability. But that's what the past does:
 its face enamels into mask. Historians 
make their living by demonstrating why

everything had to happen just the way it did: 
armies of apology. Until, if you're not attending closely, 
you decide that everything that was awful 
is okay. An excuse of cloisonné: 

bruise and blood turn into mosaic, 
little bits of blue and scarlet glass.


Anonymous said...

So lovely to find your words again. It's been forever but they twinkle like familiure stars.


Dale said...

thank you so much! xo

Lucy said...

I just wrote a long and not necessarily apposite comment to this, then lost it! But the cloisonné image is perfect: horror and sumptuousness. And

'...the past takes on an air
of inevitability. But that's what the past does'

I don't make cloisonné out of my own history though, either way, it seems a bit too paltry. Probably just as well.

Dale said...

Oh no! I don't want to lose any Lucy comments, and the less apposite, probably the greater the loss!