Wound Weather
We’ve come to reward the shriek.
Anne Carson wrote, “It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.” I believe her. More now, as the pigeons return to my street and the summer heat hums from the wires. We are wound, and we wind each other. And we keep telling stories about the wound as if that’s the same as healing. But a wound isn’t the story. It’s what’s left behind. Pain isn’t the story, it’s the residue. The stain.
