Revulsion often follows pity, compassion is too awkward to hold. Why would I feel such attraction to his face if similarity of soul is not between us? There are motorcycles parked on the island at Dyer before the entrance to a tunnel leading to the state of my birth. (My mother struggles against labor pains until morning.) As I pass, the bikes continue to lean on their kickstands: glistening black haunches in summer sunlight. I turn so serious when I exercise, thoughts march like well-trained soldiers through my mind… meanwhile random emotions pulse through me. Anxiety can never prod or prevent what is real or what is destined. A friend says everything in the past and future is happening all at once and so ‘destined’ must have already occurred. What would it be to love without fear? Ritual is never empty, repetitions resonate despite
My body. Given up for you. Memory of me.