After dropping the envelope I decided to go to CVS, just a couple of hundred feet down the road and back across another part of the big, empty parking lot. There was nothing in particular I wanted, and nothing I saw caught my fancy, but I bought a six pack of porter since I'd be needing one in a couple of days anyway, and brought it home and drank one with some leftover chips. I didn't make dinner again. It is still too hot, and I'm feeling too morose.
I forgot to not breathe in the shower and inhaled some water, which set off a coughing jag that lasted several minutes. I felt like I was suffocating. Drowning is a kind of suffocation, I guess. Dying in a fire is a kind of suffocation, too, which is how my cats probably died, and coughing painfully in the shower I kept thinking of them. It was probably way more painful and frightening for them, though, blinded by the smoke and feeling the intense heat that was searing their air passages. I got to dry off and go out into a cooler air conditioned room.
After not having dinner I went out into the back yard and saw the yellowish moon hanging alone in the sky. I can't tell if it's full or not, as my failing eyesight makes it too blurry to tell how round it is. I listened to the two crickets chirping in and out of sync, while to moonlight fell across the strange bushes and trees of this strange place. My chest is still sore from the coughing. That's not much of a problem. Forgetting to remember to not breathe in the shower is not much of a problem. Forgetting to mail the rent check is not much of a problem. The remembering is the problem, especially the remembering of what I don't really know. That will always be the problem from now on.
by Anne Sexton
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.