Laura Wetherington

By Hannah Ensor and Laura Wetherington

In meditation my thought-labeling
has gotten more specific: raging. capital. scheming.
What is the nothingness before the storm? I have tried
to be tzim tzum. I have tried to forget the word MARTYR.
So many parts of my life are like that, like when the thought comes
and I keep it inside. I'm a deep kettle whistle. I see what you mean
about the sun being sharp. My explanation for why
is under-scientific. Laughing forms kinship. Laughing is a way
to say I hear you. Or here we are. Sitting in a room creates a room
that we carry with us. It can be big, if you like.
It can hold your friends. Some feelings are for now
and some feelings are for later. I believe we can queer each other
through listening. I keep forgetting today. Did you get my letter?
My throat closed and I put brackets around it. I can't help but notice
how many of my feelings are about thinking.
...

I want no part of an alpha-anything,
but saying that I touch the mountain means

the mountain touches me also.
What chaos can make the fringe
of a discourse its center.

There are so many ways to enter
into public conversation
when words train our tongues

acts of violence are followed by a period of silence.
The rain sounds thunder.
I touch the world by throwing rocks at it.
I touch the other side of the lake with my voice
. The essence of speech
echoes the sound of speaking in rain.

Running for one's life means moving away
from populated areas.
The rain, therefore, en haute voix
...

You scooped up loose fragments of bone—perhaps a coyote or maybe a domestic dog—"I don't know enough about the world," I said, and took your hand. First thought always clouding the surface. "Intense interest and sexual attraction are not the same thing." You furrowed your brow and the debate continued in quiet. All along the skyline, the blank page of the clouds outstretched like a hand. The naked sagebrush did not bend with the wind. We stood there for some time. Then you tilted your head, indicating down the road. Going forward could only be a metaphor, and our shadows pointed east.
...

This generation has turned out to be anthroposcenic.
So many questions burning my tongue
hot breath singeing this pitiful century until
there is no longer a disappear,

no longer a leave from this growler.
Living without regret was the first rupture.
The second rupture: regret.

Suffice it to say we woke up
from the onan underneath
the moon on our right shoulder
the sun haunting at left—

Any longer of this life is more
or less an unwelcomed Snowden—
murdered privacies between

what the witnesses mean
and what the telling can hipholster.
(A comment on administrative practices—they're inefficient,
top-heavy to the tipping point

suffering ever the source
while the eyes in silence are talking—)
We're carried by suffering

down through the hurricane season,
now in small earthquake season / the silence is pain
asleep, and we nap submerged
our troubles in waist-high water

walking in place and gulping what air
the boundary between

the how-cool river
and a life that can pick up again underground
...