not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

poppies i, a natural reckoning

my son cries when my husband and i make love.

no, you don't understand. this sentence is a betrayal. my son doesn't cry, he mourns when he hears us. but does not know what he is mourning. he shakes more formidably than the poppy's shadow, its pitiful neck each year born unbraced.

my son, like each of us, was shed from the skin which housed him, into his own thin skin, with eyes of wonder and terror.

i tell a friend of this sad and tender issue, this obstacle which lurks silently until we cry out and then he cries out, in our loving house.  she makes a mother's tut tut sound with her mouth, there is something decisively wrong with that child.

yes! i want to go to my knees and tell her.  yes, so wrong, so desperately wrong.  i want to bury my face in her legs and cry, don't you feel it?  


5 comments:

  1. spesiell det første er knall synes jeg !

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    1. how quickly the light shifted, dirk. i meant to go out first in the morning before the light found its way between houses to the poppies but a moment later there it is was already.

      xo
      erin

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  2. Your writing is beautiful and I love the shadows in the photos

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    1. sage, can you imagine such things happen in the course of an ordinary day, such bodies (actual and shadow) are created! CREATED! it hurts the mind to consider such power and our vulnerable place within.

      xo
      erin

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  3. Oh, Erin, this just broke my heart...both the stinging picture and the brutal writing. There is nothing wrong with your son that growing up won't cure. We all cry at the ferociousness of life, growing up. I recall being beyond appalled at even the idea of sex when I found out what was involved. My girlfriends and I discussed it in hushed whispers and were horrified and said, "NO WAY will we EVER do that!!" How funny that is to me now. It takes so many tears to become a man or a woman. So many tears. xo

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"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))