6.1.23
SATURN’S RETURN
I can’t really tell what it is exactly we hold on to.
Fear of some type, I’m sure.
Must be something to do with forgiveness. How people say it makes us better. Our quality weighed in part by how well we tolerate cruelty. I’m tempted to call that a happy make-believe-load-of-bullshit.
But I’m too self-serving not to give my forehead the chance to unfurl.
To baptize in Forgiveness’ waters—first find the tricksy bitch of a cunt:
Her home is timber and brick. Her cabinets; aged cedar.
Willow chairs rock atop Oak porch planks.
There, you’ll find every kind of wind-chime, plant-pot, and occasional soda can: some aluminum corpses of bullet-wounds-yesterday. Others repurposed dolls, crinkled, shiny and irreverent to the looming rust.
A less prudent person might akin her aesthetic; clutter. Most know she’s just eclectic.
She’s got chandeliers fashioned from old shower-heads and Frisbees. She makes stacking shelves from pinched airless balls. All types—the grass-deflated soccer and the sun-withered beach.
Forgiveness saves every fortune from every cookie, and she’s never thrown out the wrapper.
In fact she’s never thrown out any wrapper.
She’s fashioned cabinet knobs from chocolate foils, she insulates her windows with the cellophane of post dinner mints, and has a collection of earrings made entirely out of condom wrappers.
She keeps them all. The wrappers, the Happy Meal toys, the knick-knacks, the small trinkets, that one tiny pebble your first love used to knock on your window at night, and, on a different night, when love became heartbreak and window; broken-glass, Forgiveness picked every single shard off the carpet and fashioned herself a birdbath.