Year of the Rabbit
Unlike the churning shit-show-roar of whateverthat was we just left behind, this year, onlinechatter tells me, will be one of contemplationand hope. Maybe. Right now, I’m holding stillthe best I can, having followed once again thissame path to this same hill with its one treeI can’t name, accompanied by Gloria the pug,harbinger of nothing, prowl-snorting for any scrapshe can find. I’m trying to hold still, to allow someof what the world gives back just now to summona faith in change—pug pant, wind rummagingbranches, bird fussing with a length of yarn,Pleasant Street traffic slosh—but truth be toldthis half-ass attempt at mindfulness isn’t offeringmuch. Last week, I wrote to a friend whosehusband’s body has betrayed him again and, as ifI’d forgotten the way words work, was surprisedhow weightless each…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2023