Crush

Maybe my limbs are made

mostly for decoration,

like the way I feel about

persimmons. You can’t

really eat them. Or you

wouldn’t want to. If you grab

the soft skin with your fist

it somehow feels funny,

like you’ve been here

before and uncomfortable,

too, like you’d rather

squish it between your teeth

impatiently, before spitting

the soft parts back up

to linger on the tongue like

burnt sugar or guilt.

For starters, it was all

an accident, you cut

the right branch

and a sort of light

woke up underneath,

and the inedible fruit

grew dark and needy.

Think crucial hanging.

Think crayon orange.

There is one low, leaning

heart-shaped globe left

and dearest, can you

tell, I am trying

to love you less.

Ada Limón

You see my hesistation

Last January, I was talking to my friend Neale about what I was going to do with all the time I had. My contract ended at the museum, and my position was going to be terminated. It all sounded so bleak. When you have a routine and are adequately occupied, it's easy to come up with all sorts of wonderful projects: little drawings and paintings on wood, re-potting plants, writing articles, reading books that would otherwise take too long and become confusing when you can only read a few pages on a metro. But when you are faced with an abundance of time (when I am), where do these ideas go? All I could think about was being sad. I am awesome at being sad. I could teach a course on it. But back to time (which, when unfilled, is directly proportional to being sad for me)...I had time. And Neale suggested that I should write a blog. He had one. A blog? Really? Spend more time on the Internet and at the computer? NO. But then I thought: This could be a way to connect with the people I love! It's like writing a mass email that people could choose to receive! And I could feel like a few people were listening to what I was reading and watching and thinking about with receptive ears. So I am going to try it. Maybe. Here goes nothing.