Morus
On Monday I stay up all night.
One thought rolls into another, ideas begetting ideas.
A constellation that mimics a twisted spine. A bouquet of grief, insecurity, and regret.
Mulberry, I learn, means I will not survive you. Another novel fact for my collection.
A momentary source of amusement, the idea of ascribing so much to something so benign.
It’s not a small thing to say: I will not survive you. No, it’s the kind of thing that shifts existences.
I’m reminded of Pyramus of Thisbe. I’m reminded of you.
And understanding blooms, because I would not have survived you. I remember our mulberry tree, all that time we spent beneath it, not knowing.
Maybe this is funny after all.
9:45 a.m. - 2023-09-21
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