The neighbor’s jasmine is descending my side of the fence in full bloom. It softens the otherwise barren corner of the year. The neighbor only shows up to power wash and mow, like so many around here now. The fragrance is lovely and when it puts its face in mine I feel invaded. It happens mostly
at nighttime. I wonder when I will be pushed out. So heady, I open the windows and it makes me dream wondrous.
In the old world religions, and probably in the new one, too, when it was somebody else’s old world and it still belonged to them, they observed the onset of things – the beginning of the harvest, the cold times when one must store up reserves, the planting season. The imperialism of Christianity is the putting of pins into a calendar like you could make time stand still. Here is Easter! It’s a type of violence, and an extension of the metaphor of nails going into a fleshly hand. It’s not politically correct to say, but you asked how I was doing.
I mix up etymologies. Sometimes I’ll put scapula with scalpel, but the fine edge of a young woman’s shoulder blade can always slice me across the eyeball.
My head doesn’t have room for all these thoughts. They’re unruly students, all speaking at once, and then they’re gone and I find brittle seeds sticking to stray threads in my pocket, and I can only guess what they’re for. I’m lucky if they didn’t go through the wash. Now I have a chance to plant them
and see what they become. If I remember.
I don’t fear being alone, just wish I could be more alone when I am. Like, time has something to do with physical presence? There’s an amount of decay that occurs after a few hours or weeks, depending
on the relationship. If I can swing my arms around when I dance I’ll know you’re gone, and I only dance alone.
In the morning, there’s the smell of wildfire. Will I be next?