We look at charts and graphs set before us, the residues of testing. Here is the line that shows where we struggle through a wilderness of feelings we can’t yet name, where nights splinter from the metal aftertastes of worry. Outside, it is fully and ripeningly summer. The ache in the bud gives way to the shaken bloom. We have words for things we cannot guarantee, and jars in one corner of the shelf for catching change. So heavy with the green of its fruits, the tree in the yard bends beyond the scope of what it’s consigned to give. Look at how its flanks are so open: as if a hand running a closed fist back along the branch were all it would take to strip it of all it has.
In response to Via Negativa: Testament.