Diary 28
THE LONG TRAIN HOME
Twelve hours and a lick of spirit to spare. The moonlight, all polished and pearly, shines on the porch of the train. Brilliant but dimming every second, sapping energy as it goes, and with nothing to offer in return. It isn’t much. But it’s just enough.
5 Rules of the Train
1. Pondering won’t do you any good. Pull your knees into your chest and will your way to the west, all soot and brawn.
2. Keep your letters in your pockets. Where the prairie breeze can’t reach ‘em.
3. Your bones are feeble. Trust your dog with your life.
4. Sing if you want, howl when you need—sometimes the coyotes respond.
5. “Live in love or die in misery.”
A LETTER
Darlin’,
A few years ago I left some expensive bourbon on your kitchen counter.
I was delighted to hear that it might still be around.
Your sister reached out to me with genuine concern,
asking how you’ve been doing,
why I left my bottle of bourbon with you,
and I wondered what she was talking about.
As in, who did she think I was to you?
Did she assume that I was a lovedrunk fool, or did she assume that I was yours?
Yours,
A Lovedrunk Fool
”All Bread,” by Margaret Atwood
All bread is made of wood,
cow dung, packed brown moss,
the bodies of dead animals, the teeth
and backbones, what is left
after the ravens. This dirt
flows through the stems into the grain,
into the arm, nine strokes
of the axe, skin from a tree,
good water which is the first
gift, four hours.
Live burial under a moist cloth,
a silver dish, the row
of white famine bellies
swollen and taut in the oven,
lungfuls of warm breath stopped
in the heat from an old sun.
Good bread has the salt taste
of your hands after nine
strokes of the axe, the salt
taste of your mouth, it smells
of its own small death, of the deaths
before and after.
Lift these ashes
into your mouth, your blood;
to know what you devour
is to consecrate it,
almost. All bread must be broken
so it can be shared. Together
we eat this earth.
April 13th, 2022
-waded through the creek with thunder & lightning overhead
-sat in the garage watching the wind & rain
-chicken shawarma, roasted cauliflower, & a liberal glass of white wine
April 14th, 2022
-50 mph winds
-a run at the forest preserve
-oak tree that fell across the path a moment before me
April 15th, 2022
-nostalgic dinner with a friend
-a warm pub in the cold night
-”the long train home”
April 16th, 2022
-picking bluebells, makeshift vases
-goat cheese cheesecake
-full moon over the river
Two vases from my little sister, a fourth grader—
1. shot glass, palm-sized flower, sunlit window
2. teapot, bluebells (& one sneaky dandelion), sunlit countertop
