Approaching the dam, you see the floodgates are open, and that everything below it and before you is bathed in cool mist — the oaks and the brambles, last summer’s grass, the mounds of half-melted granite looking for all the world like a giant’s tears. And you think, what is your own body if not a kind of dam, and what are your eyes if not floodgates? What are your thoughts, beliefs, and old tired notions but great rusted hinges about to break free?
Not what was said
but what you would say
if yours were the first words
Recently Banned Literature, November 30, 2015