dear so-called discontinuation of being, dear cease & desist, redundant in terms & also – you fallacy, lover of false finishes, I want to know, once and for all, about closure – doesn’t everyone? You aren’t god, you’re something else. But explain faith & lapses of Catholicism, fervent genuflecting for years then bam, upright for life & -isms that don’t end in Amen, thankfully. The faith that keeps my grandmothers teetering on edges resistant as my dog’s jaw on a bone: Don’t take this from me, don’t you dare – aren’t their graying crowns a denouement? But no, each morning a wind-up breath propels them back for just one more day. I’m not sure if summer ended or if winter won’t show up: my memory of four seasons pummeled by global warming, if that’s even a thing. You would know, wouldn’t you? About denial of a proper service, like exes that ping my phone years later – still there? Trains whistle all night though I’m certain the train yard is full of rusted cars tagged & stagnant since I can remember. At night when I can’t sleep I play The White Album in my head, like a dream, but even that has a fake-out – Her Majesty sneaks in after The End. You love the heavy pauses, don’t you? How you keep the wait just so, immeasurable like space, like time – the tail of a hurtling comet, its sparkling body unresolved, directionless. It’s your universe, after all, with fits & starts like doomsday now, forever young tomorrow. And merciless, always.
-- Sarah McCall is a poet, yoga teacher, and student of language and self. Once she was an English teacher, and sometimes she was a bartender, but always a list maker and lover of clean, bright things. Sarah lives in Norfolk, VA with her husband and their two dogs.