I ate a painkiller again a little bit ago, so some of my sleepiness may be from that. My mow-projectile-shot ankle seems to be more swollen these past coupla days, a week after the injury. I'm thoroughly up in the air about whether to take it in to be checked out by some medical authority. For one thing, I'm still feeling the relief that I didn't have to take it in to begin with, that I could put weight on it, that I can get a shoe on that foot (if not a sock]. Also my sense is that they would likely not actually do anything for it in terms of treatment, and I'd spend money and use time just to be told it'll take time to
It's the first week of school.
The postcard poetry month is over, so those are tumbling out again. I really like maybe 3 or 4 of the ones I wrote during August. I dunno, maybe 5, but I doubt 6. Not a high percentage. One of the last ones I received was probably my favorite incoming. This is it:
You saved the birdcage because you couldn't
save the bird, and every Sunday you scrub it clean.
And what if we become the things we hold onto?
I imagine your faceless birdcage body
walking into the room like a Magritte painting
red cape cloaking your shadowy arms.
I hold my ear to a seashell and choke on the ocean.
-- Kristina McD.
That's some good stuff. And it impresses me also as a composed-onto-the-card first draft effort. I like its tone, and it has some evocative images and words. Plus its speaker holds her ear to the seashell, not the seashell to her ear. That's pretty great in itself, and for how it sets up the surprise finish.
The card it came on is a Texas tourist card of an armadillo. The blurb: "One of the armadillo's oddities is that all the young in each litter are of the same sex."