Returning to Dirt

Mary Biddinger

I was feeling really good. I had a friend in town. My hair was soft with grief. Hourly the clock tower made me cry but it was an excellent cry, like drinking from a spring. It was cool enough to wear a scarf which is ideal for absorbing tears unless it’s real silk. The thought of all those silk worms, oblivious to their ultimate role, was a reason to weep. I was not thinking about the rabbit we saw returning to dirt beneath a mulberry bush. Sometimes I seemed like a character created by a man. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. Such as listening to rain on loop. Eventually it will have an effect. My roommate nearly died from standing in rain, and then she actually died. I had to throw away every plate in the apartment but didn’t have the heart. Instead, a note and a stack. Everything was incomplete. A few grains of salt but not a block.


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