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Show Moon - 214 snow would release a certain ripeness, the silken seeds bursting at last from a warty milkweed pod. Already my body is betraying me. I don't know if I'm going to have a baby or if these are symptoms of something unspeakable and far advanced. Either possibility carries its own set of terrors and perplexing intimations of a better state of being. They say that when children kill themselves they cannot envision death as final; they think they will wake up again. I am not so sure we ever quite outgrow this belief. Maybe those children are right. You, for example, keep waking up inside me. I had a dream about you soon after I met Josh. You were sitting in a field of daffodils, daisies, Indian paintbrush. You stood and ran over to me, as light on your feet as a dancer. You were young, perhaps eighteen, your hair in braids hanging free like German girl's. You put out your hands and asked me to dance with you. There was no pleading, no fear in your eyes. You were poised, contained, completely sure of yourself. I felt an ecstasy that still comes back to me when I remember the dream. Since then I have imagined that this is what it will be like to die, and I'm not afraid. Another thing comes to me: I actually like being alive, very much. I remember Caleb, and later, Lee, lying eye to eye on my chest, and I think I might like being alive even more if I were going to have a baby. I feel an intense craving for the physical rending of birth. I would lie beneath the stars, hacked open, spilled out, surrendered at last. Td be real. |
