#20 winter solstice

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I think of my brothers and I like a school of fish. As kids we swam in the same water and played in the waves. Having older brothers I was always working with an intuition just out of reach. Having a younger brother there was someone to follow in my wake. We sparkled around the globe. I don't know when we transformed from shimmering minnows into hardened snapping turtles. We carry our particular memories of water and air. We look through a lens of honey and see varied versions of our saga. Each one of us carries a particular riff.


Saga By Mary Ruefle

Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging  --  crushed
and sparkling  --  in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
but they are all invisible.
Or off gallivanting around the globe.
Not here when I need them
now that i need them
if I ever did which I doubt.
Being particular has its problems.
In particular there is a rift through everything.
There is a rift running the length of Iceland
and so a rift runs through every family
and between families a feud.
It's called a saga. Rifts and sagas
fill the air, and beautiful old women
sing of them, so the air is filled with
music and the smell of berries and apples
and shouting when a gun goes off
and crying in closed rooms.
Faces, who needs them?
Eating the blood of oranges
I in my alcove could use one.
Abbas and ammas!
come out of your huts, travel
halfway around the world,
inspect my secret bank account of joy!
My face is a jar of honey
you can look through,
you can see everything
is muted, so terribly muted,
who could ever speak of it,
sealed and held up for all?

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