After Reading An Email

I just want to stay home with my dogs and listen to the cars or the wind rushing purposefully by.

I write the following to the friend whose words brought me crashing back into contact with my would-be-writing-self:

breath-taking, ,
how can i go anywhere now
except back to the blank page
a life’s reply is the only response
respectful enough

did i mention i am launching an immigrant lit class for summer 1
then in class 16 weeks this fall
somehow, until now,
i thought i might be ready…to read…to cipher through
the sinews of such shared pasts
suffocatingly present

now
i am the one laid out
in need of some hand to hold

 

 

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