When I Was a Glacier
By Emily Skillings
That Bruegel painting
of hunters returning
in winter, the filmmakers
go nuts for it. A sad rabbit
on a stick & more. It’s like
really in there, tonally—
a male, disappointed
group trudge towards
a more lighthearted
communal flurry, women
and children full of fire
upholding weird roofs
doing the real work.
A moment ago I moved
something (not particularly
large) to the other side
of the table and felt
so old and immense
and in control. Like a truck
crunching on its path.
I project white onto the
floorboards. And isn’t
this music from that ballet
that always makes us?
Indistinguishable
from a folktale-pink shock
of pure quartz through the wall.
Give me one irregular mark
for my thigh to pit the year
against. 16th century sound
gets all over the daybed
and you relocate your teeth
to the opposite nipple.
My thought in that moment
it’s a brutal cave.
Brightest bird, tailfeather,
increasing gray line, fail me
my distant mountain.
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Running late watching the men's figure skating short program, which has contained some shocks and some astonishing performances, plus a couple of revelations from skaters I'd never heard of before this year's European championships. It was a pretty quiet day apart from the fact that we got new bird feeders (squirrels destroyed the metal hanger on one of the others, which will necessitate some creative repair) and I had to do some climbing in the front yard moving feeders and bird houses around.
We took a walk before the rain started and ate un-sexy meals (vegan Spaghetti-Os for lunch, frozen fake chicken for dinner) after listening to my good friend's father give a talk about the Jews of Greece during the Holocaust on Zoom. We finally got ahold of our kids late at night -- older son spent last weekend judging a robotics competition whose final rounds were in Amazon's big conference hall, younger son was trying to finish a big project for work. Some pink color in Brookside's conservatory yesterday:
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