after Eimear McBride


The back of what happens next goes like this. There is so little you can tell a reader. You can give a place for them to wait, a sort of dead time that is unreal and fathomed, or phantomed, in ghost or fever, fever or ghost, in dream delay, stay, stray, slay, but let’s pause on sorrow. Feeling and emotion are only part of the truth.  It is in the trappings of each day that we woman ourselves forward. [We are the stronger sex]. I have enough of the slow-woman in me [piecing together what is all right]. You have a history; you don’t know what can hurt you; you don’t know what can happen; we are all waiting to do a thing, to mollify or sway, reason or stay, but what would the informed delivery appear as? Something will happen: it will be momentary, abstract. What is maladjusted adjusts. It will be a release, the best conversation in the world, or an explosion of slight pivots where little by little we face what lies ahead, a few inches at a time, turning and turning and turning, and reaching and reaching and reaching with our arms and our eyes and our hearts and our minds and our hands our hands our hands our hands our hands our hands our hands
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