The Zen Of The Hammer


he loves me, he loves me not


are you ok?


but today he spent 75 dollars to buy us groceries.

my mouth hurts.

i saw my mother in a store in East Gadsden and
only recognized her by her scent. i haven't been
to see her in weeks. i haven't called her. i don't
i won't i can but i won't go and see her or call her
and i don't know why, exactly. i just don't want to.

"you don't have to, baby," glenn tells me.

"you would be surprised at the things i don't do because
i don't have to," i told him.

i went and we hammered (the Zen of the hammer, the face
that haunts me on the head of a nail. POUND-POUND-POUND
die, animal, die) and painted and worked together.

speckled with redwood stain because i had stupidly seen the
faces that haunt me on the lid of the paint can (the Zen of the
hammer POUND-POUND-POUND), i laughed in the wind.



shopping in the grocery store, old, tired, hungry faces, the faces of
the poor, the lost, the forgotten. i am conservative, it is not my
money. glenn and Krystal fill the cart with things i wouldn't buy.

we all worked together to unload the car, then Krystal and i put them

"these go in the freezer," she tells me.
"Oh! everything in your house is so organized!"
"is that bad, Krystal?" i ask her.
"oh, no! i love that."

and i think of the condition of glenn's house. i want to hug her,
but i pat her head instead.

last night we were sitting on the bed, me brushing the snarls out
of her beautiful red hair, and she started talking to me about how
she feels when she makes the dogs cry.

"i feel better talking to you about this," she tells me, shyly and
sincerely. glenn is not in the room, he's making us dinner.
"i'm tender-headed right there," she says when i accidentally
pull the brush too roughly through her hair. i wonder, is this
why i'm here? is this some sort of cosmic trade-off for the
safety glenn gives me? the hugs while i cry? the whispers
of secrets in the dark?

"tell me a secret," i whispered to him last night.

"i don't have any," he replied.


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