A poem for Shirl, a poem for Lucy.
A poem for Jocelyn. Something for the old timers. I pass by the clapboarded houses and oppress them with my nostalgia, daydream about how sweet life could be with my lover and our children. Life could be sweet, sweet like a carrot frozen in the ground, sweet like something whose sturdy starches that it uses to sustain itself have been crucified, masticated into simple sugars by hard times and low down cold nights alone. Alone in the frozen ground with no way to harvest itself. Even if it could harvest itself, pulling it out of the frozen ground would mean death. Mastication not just by the cruel cycles of the seasons but now by nibbling jaws with little or big teeth. Either way, your food is not for you. It is of you but it is not for you. This is your world, your life - make it what you want it. I am my own family now. My naive ideas about togetherness, passion, treasuring, a community of friends are slowly dying. No one is coming. I am here, wand in hand. If I don't act soon, the Dementors will come and I will be worse than dead. I understand my mother better now. Life is a work of Tanztheater, nothing more and nothing less. Dream, yes. Love, yes. Practice, yes. Allow me my soothing bit of honeycomb when I am sick and sad, but don't expect me to harvest it from the same hive you get yours from. Mine isn't better than yours and yours isn't better than mine. But they are different.