Tell me something good
—Margaret Atwood
The devil doth foretell the
following series of events.
And to the emergency room
he promptly went, thinking
he was suffering from stroke.
But the beds there make for
pretty rad naps once you get
one. How do we paint that
singular ray of hope into each
painting, each imagining of a
future that is ours? Initially, I’d
say abstractly, or metaphorically.
But then I remember that I’m
But then I remember that I’m
rather blatant about the dist
inguished liquid that sits—often
visibly disturbed—at midpoint in
the drinking glass on the other
side of the (veritable; yes, abs
tract or metaphorical) plate that
lies before me. Now but half full,
it was but erstwhile filled to with
in a sliver of the rim a mere
smidgeon of time ago. It’s not be
cause I’m an optimist that I relay
this to you (yet I am). It is simply
illustrate that the missing liquid
was not taken from that glass
by evaporation. No. It is now
a tiny ocean that resides in the
pit of my stomach, roiling with
waves and mixed with juices “so
acidic,” (I had an elementary teacher
once proclaim,) “that it would burn
a hole into the carpet and the floor
beneath it.” It is a nourishment
that within its depths now swim
what would surely be missing and
now unrecognizable bits that only
minutes ago populated my plate
and surf its magnificent waves
like beach bums on bellyboards,
or, as if with feet planted delicately
upon a slab, a body balances erect
upon the board, patiently awaiting
the bomb, that ultimate epic ride.
