• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 12
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There is a hidden place in the heart of something, a place where all poems you love go. Here, rain showers welcome you into their arms. You feel unashamed to need this, all of this, the touch and care of rain, the comfort of poetry, of readers, of Mary asking questions, of falling into those questions like a nest. Her partner, Molly, passed away, and she wrote a book. You imagine holding Mary’s hand in front of a fire, asking the questions together, welcoming the rain, protecting the fire from the rain. You imagine people you both love coming in.

"I am at a standstill, Mary," you say, still holding her hand.
"Never," she says, giving your hand a press with hers.

And you walk on. You walk through the swampy forest and into another, cooler forest, and then you make your way to a desert, and then a mountaintop full of snow. Those red birds you love come in, and then – you’re thinking too much – let go! Wide open space a few hours from the Pacific Ocean. You are looking for something; there is a hidden place. You cannot believe Mary has left this world, too. It feels different without her. You wonder who will carry you through fields of birds and grass now.

You wonder if there’s a book you can write, like she did. You wonder if the book can become something for those who looked to her, like you did, for a hand to hold. You wonder if everyone who softened their bodies into her work, was lifted up by her work, can write these books, will write these books, in some way.

Can you feel the rectangles of love and light, sprouting like trees and flowers?