Everything, Happening
Next to my loves, I called my mother, said, “I love you,” thought, “this could very well be it.”
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Not-night. Not-morning.
I did not dream of Jetson’s cars,
or get the adventure that Elroy
programs into his dream-machine.
It is not not an answered prayer.
The dream’s still there.
There are rumors of tornados,
there is longing on the wind,
I’ve been blown out by both before
but I’ve also been brought inside
of closets where every “if”
submits to “is” and next to my loves
I called my mother, said, “I love you,”
thought, “this could very well be it.”1
And I suppose that I’d not rather go
with anyone but them (roll your
Southern eyes at the Western Boy),
all apocalyptic and abysmally spun up
inside a whim where lightning strikes
and sets the house on fire and
pulls the neighbors in and then?
it shifts and lifts just as quick as it hit
the town inside of him. When
I asked the trickles of rain, falling
outside my window-seat this morning,
if they were afraid, they did not respond to me.
They let Everything happen to them.
They are Everything, happening.
We are Every Thing. I am learning
how to see. Previously, though
I could ascent to believe that
clay and landscape carried memory,
I had not known it in the
clay or landscape or memory
that is our body.
And knowing is an entirely
different thing
than belief.
Eggers, Caroline. "2023 Is Tennessee’S 7th-deadliest Year for Tornadoes." WPLN News, 12 Dec. 2023, wpln.org/post/2023-is-tennessees-8th-deadliest-year-for-tornadoes/.