Love prose for reading on the brink of WWIII

Daily prose poems

I. 

There’s a system of waterways just a few miles from where we both live—I think of all the possible times we might’ve walked on the same path, not realizing how close we were to meeting—how our steps were recurring attempts. It could’ve been infinity that led us to sea—or perhaps nothing was really meant at all—but I decided that our small actions were incrementally aligned—an ordained randomness was the sense we were looking for.

II. 

I’m superstitious in the sense I don’t drink water that’s left out overnight. I was told that’s where spirits collect and can turn into a committee. I’m superstitious in the sense that I don’t speak about the promising good, yet uncertain thing. My enthusiasm may scare it away before it’s truly real. However, if I’m dangerous and among the living, I do both: accept what could coalesce and love what’s right in front of my nose. What saves me is knowing that joy begins in a sacred room, with only one key. 

III.

I went department store shopping on what could be the brink of the apocalypse. And I thought: Why do I feel lonely when waiting for the bus? Waiting, as it turns out, is the opportune time for loss to show its familiar face. To remember how the future is imagined and maybe living in the cloud? I will remember love as running in the rain for takeout—saying I love you in the kitchen—being an empty vessel to be filled with music.

IV. 

On the bus, I listen to BBC where the former President of Ukraine said there are only two outcomes—pushing out the enemy or fighting until the last warrior dies. My dad texts me: What do you think? What could I say, but—I’m scared. I’m sad. And can’t seem to fathom the heavy fist looming on the horizon. Why does one person get to turn the world counterclockwise? Say a prayer for the Ukrainian people. I fall asleep in a quiet room and wake up remembering “The Hidden Woman” by Colette—a dizzy story of costume and desire. I tear my apartment up, rabid, to find my copy. Will the world end in the same way? You and I, lost, hopefully together on a spinning rock—the earth compressing us like a crushed grape.

Last updated March 12, 2022