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.
4 comments:
So lovely to find your words again. It's been forever but they twinkle like familiure stars.
Gabrielle
thank you so much! xo
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.
Oh no! I don't want to lose any Lucy comments, and the less apposite, probably the greater the loss!
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