NaPoWriMo #12

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Mid-April Book of Days

At night, you lull yourself to sleep listening to an interview of a woman who studies the brain chemistry of sex and romance.  These hormones, the woman says, diminish activity in the decision-making part of the brain.  This shows up on scans.  

All the next morning, you dream that a poet you know is teaching biology for writers at an artists’ retreat.  You are encouraged either to get in the water polo game or to cheer on the shore. The lake is terribly deep and not fit for water polo, so you wander back into the building thinking of the terror of the sublime, but not in those words.  You find a private lake-viewing room which opens on to the side of the lake.  A wall of lake is there, suspended, waiting. 

It is evening, and you stand on your porch with your son, encouraging him to observe the natural world around him.  You are trying to distract him from rushing to the neighbor’s to ring the doorbell while you wait for his father to put on his shoes and take him for a walk.  You tell your son that the single tulip by the steps is a “volunteer,” the word for something planted long ago that sprouts unexpectedly, and also the word for someone who shows up to help because they’ve chosen to do so. 

You write an encouraging message to a friend who is full of dread.  I know for a true fact that you are magic, you write.  It said it right there in the cards.  You succeed in making your friend cry.

You find a forgotten cache of copies of your poetry book in the closet, the one with cover art by your friend the cosmic milkmaid. You sit down to examine your own line breaks and end up reading the entire thing.  Woven through this book are tender moments between the speaker and the speaker’s boyfriend, later the father of her son.  You wonder who these people are.  

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