The Potato on the Table
There is a potato on the table. I stare at it, then write a novel. The novel takes place inside the potato. The point-of-view is that of the hard creamy unseen inside, but I know what that looks like so I am able to write. It is a perfect potato. A novel potato. One without eyes.
Clothes of the Dead
Do something vulpine. Step on a dead branch. If it snaps, memory’s found work. Try putting all of your love into your little finger, then move it. Use your other little finger to express grief. If you move both fingers at once, you will be wearing the clothes of the dead. Try being relaxed while giving an after-dinner speech. Try being an eidolon afterwards, when you’re alone.
Tuesday. Midnight. But so much has already been written on this subject. . . I might as well base my mood on Finnish folk songs. . . the moon looks like thick grayish paper booksellers used when sending parcels through the post in former Finnish days. . . beautiful dreamer, moonlight and books are waiting for thee, and dulcet days in Finland when after the coup all the world will be one religion and all living things cease to die. Now you know how it is with me, on Tuesday, at midnight.
Neck of the Woods
A handsome beautiful tree perhaps, but he has the advantage of living in Boston, making the others appear provincial. They don’t stand a chance, living like that in dirt, when they die they just fall in among the rubbish of their own kin. Sometimes you see their bodies floating in the river. Trees in Boston have their picture taken and when they die the newspaper expresses how sad the city is. It’s a shame, while to be outside the great gate is shameful.
MARY RUEFLE‘s latest book is Dunce (Wave Books, 2019). She lives in Vermont.
Artwork by David Dodd Lee.
© The Glacier 2022. All rights reserved.