I’m torn. I really need to decorate and get caught up around here, but I also want to just spend the day on the computer. I have so much to do. Holidays should not be an obligation, but they are.
This is my compromise with myself . . .
the peonies are beyond their deaths.
In here—on our continent of a bed—
we are busy showing each other pictures
of ourselves: mouth to rib, back to belly, palm
to hip. Here is the reciprocal breath, the sanctified
taking—my only chance
All day long I live in my head
and as the house bends toward twilight
you say, See here, you’ve got it all wrong.
Lie down. Get a load of our quiet profiles.
the tubers have turned inward,
away from the light.
In here—in our cathedral of a room—
we are busy ridding ourselves
of words, holding our faces
to the mirror. Carrying out
our best directive.
~ Tina Schumann
Music by The Gospel Whiskey Runners, “The Wound”