Someone told themselves the canyon would fill with blood. Someone told themselves the horses would be set against a fire and told to race, that this was the way into the world.
I want to be almost-gone. As though I walk into a room and the task at hand is just to be. To blend. To stare into the deep space and know what’s coming next. Like a wave approaching.
I thought that watching horses race a fire would be prophetic. Or that the sound of their bodies against the earth would heal me. Not only me, the world.
Someone once told themselves the way to know what was happening next was to go off, alone, and build a cabin out of rock, wood, maybe even moss.
My father is a memory attached to a river and also the desert. I have tried my entire life to make the river run through the desert but it has not happened yet.
I told a man God tasted like lemon-bread. I remember the taste. Stone. Riding a horse into the next moment listening to the country radio station.
Someone once said they don’t believe in people, per se, just the emotions between them and that’s what we remember. Or don’t. Depending on the emotion.
When I say, SOMEONE, I mean, perhaps, a girl in Idaho that I miss and is probably, most likely, going on a walk or on her bike or cooking vegan meals and losing her father all over again. She repeats, perhaps, that loss unknowingly. As in reading Psalms again and again but seeing new doorways.
I love everything, even losing, I once said. Though I didn’t realize I’d lose this much. And I’m angry and know she, my past-self, is still right, though innocent and stupid and immature.