Concealed
Everything bears witness that much is concealed. The sunlight means what it says but its comments can be taken in different ways, one that stays here and is the third or fourth day of summer, and one that hurries back to the big white mansion with all the terraces. The mockingbird sings garlands that adorn various walls, some of which we see from this side and some from the other, some from neither and some most precious both sides at once because they are windows. Yet it’s the same mockingbird. We like clarity but disappear when there’s too much, as if we’d gotten into one of those jars of vanishing cream from an old cartoon. A little gentler is to set out our trash cans once a week, for people dressed in dark colors to go through before the sun comes up, redeeming everything.
Peter Cashorali is a neurodiverse queer writer living at the intersection of rivers, farmland and civil war. He practices a contemplative life.
See more of his work in 13.1 and 13.1