Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

Catherine Hoffman

‘And how do you know otherwise?

By him knowing, he lets me know it too.

That bird may have been a call to wake up. To what? His poor beak agape, his valiant swallowing, the bitten-off morsels too large, but he worked and muscled the apple scraps to get them into him. And then ate more. And was not there in the morning.

It’s going round and around in me.

I’ve lost the God-structure of the universe because of that

Cinke.

A bit of fluff.

*

June the 1st.

And no. There’s no more May. May is over. June is only a fey green. And flat. There’s no love in me for a God in whose universe one single creature dies in a cry of abandonment.

*

June 1st.

Evening. And that’s it. Though I keep on asking for the meaning of it, there’s no telling my ‘chick’ story. Or hearing the salve for it. Not to or from anybody. Not in words, not usefully, or humanly. At God, I remain swords drawn. He died in that bird. And with that to me. But why did I not stay with the Cinke until he died? If I stop the love, it will take away my life. There never was any other side.

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