A golden shovel for Gwendolyn Brooks
I cannot bear the field guides for this terrible world. Just as well.
I’ve made a rule: only one divorce task per day, however long it
takes. I’ve become a ghost of myself. The quiet was
nice at first, proof we were comfortable I thought. Interesting—
how you get used to anything: masks, not being touched. How
the woods behind the house have emptied of birds, the silence
a gap in the fugue score, a held breath pretending it could
restore us to balance on the exhale. As if any of that could give
meaning to the dissolve. Such wreckage. The heart is a place
that contains all destinations: from rage to regret, from fear to
failure to grief and back, to shame for staying, for being such
a fool to keep hoping things might change. Still, I’m someone who enjoys a
crowd of birds at the feeder, cleaving the air with their beautiful noise.
–
Melanie Figg is the author of the award-winning poetry collection Trace and a recent National Endowment for the Arts Fellow. Her poems, micro memoirs, and essays appear in Hippocampus, The Rumpus, Colorado Review, Nimrod, and dozens of others. A certified professional coach, Melanie teaches writing and works remotely with writers.