Poetry • Meghan Privitello
A lake can be safe. A house can be safe. A house in a lake is not safe. There are electricities and clogged heart valves. A brother should not lose a brother in a storm. In a womb. On a Friday. Beside the white chickens. It has taken me a light-year to not come to terms with dying. When my loves die, they will not leave their memories to me. Colorado is something like that. An altitude that leaves you breathless then leaves you. If a plane crashes into a lake, it will never go missing. Families can carry bodies home like lost dogs, can swat the dead with a rolled-up paper and say Never again, you hear? You want the mirror between your legs to say you are fractal. But you are a closet. A closet in a house. A closet in a house in a lake. Glazed with rainwater. Besides, the choice between endlessness and motionlessness is another conversation about space. You do not want to die with a pineapple in your arms. The afterlife will not support heavy fruits: they are anchors; they will drag you to the basement. The basement in a stranger’s house. On the bottom of a lake. The red wheelbarrow in your yard used to perform the fletcher’s paradox every Saturday. Your death performs it better: It’s going nowhere. It’s impossible motion. So much depends upon the god you want to believe in. For instance, what kind of home his body will be. Whether he’s capable of sinking. If his insides smell like the wreckage you’ve always known.
Meghan Privitello is the author of A New Language for Falling Out of Love (YesYes)
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