  |
||
|
|
| |
||
|
|
|
Gulping shadows in the hollows of throats. A rip in the faded, threadbare apron, caught up in the silver latch of a safety pin. A jigsaw puzzle laid out with a missing piece: that jagged chunk of brown wood where a cut of blue sky should be. But who wants those empty spaces filled in with childhood horror stories? who believed in the totality of nothing--used to say, it's sometimes better to leave sleeping dogs lay. The unrelenting quest for wholeness can have its drawbacks, too. Besides, one thing or another will always be missing. But the therapist--who reminds me of the cat monster that eats tongues and who, in reality, is a known gravedigger-- settles for nothing less than exhumation. A child standing alone in the middle of a dusty road, crying after its mother who has just disappeared around the bend, afraid to follow her more afraid to stay behind. Certainty slips like a broken pawl. |
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
About Standards |
 |
||