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.
So lovely to find your words again. It's been forever but they twinkle like familiure stars.
ReplyDeleteGabrielle
thank you so much! xo
ReplyDeleteI just wrote a long and not necessarily apposite comment to this, then lost it! But the cloisonné image is perfect: horror and sumptuousness. And
ReplyDelete'...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!
ReplyDelete