Craters. Large, unwieldy craters brimful of dusty notebooks stained in the rain. With a hundred cups of coffee. Making every word weep into each page. Stacked there high, next to the attic window.

To pry loose each thought, take plenty of breaks, curse, talk alone, whisper secrets only in empty rooms. Try not to let the heart’s malaise seep into the revolution. Carry each day forward, chained to the night before. Learn to scream and cry silently. There is a grain of wisdom, of truth, each time I insist on refreshing old wounds and rubbing apart each scab.

Unhinge. Let it shrink, allow it to fade.

To use Louise Erdrich‘s words, clear out the heart of its savage mementos.


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