T says that trust is as natural as rock or tree; its presence solid, its language silent, its shape changing as we do. But you can sit with someone you’ve known and loved for years, and discover how easy it is to lose and how quickly it displaces you and oddly, how soon you seem to recover – you erase the memory of that hurt, at first clumsily and then with a steely calm – the only way you know how to cope, but it blooms again, somehow, somewhere. This too is natural, after all.

I think too much, say too much.


Adrienne Rich

You’re wondering if I’m lonely:
Ok then, yes, I’m lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I’m lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawns’ first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I’m lonely
it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning