Nicole Parizeau When It Does Not Increase to my mother
What happens to me here, underwater, has nothing in common with what you see from shore. We all drown distorted by surface tension. At depth, the moon rises like ice. Love is like the moon; when it does not increase, it decreases. Lunar maria: Sea of Tranquility, Sea of Crisis. I see it’s time to tap at recent wounds, assess what’s scarred over sufficiently to hold our weight. Every day I vow to call you. It’s easy, like wholesale butchery. I sway between balm and venom on the continuum of love and you groom your reef perversely, laying skeletal coral on top of the living. There are two of us walking this plank, each to her own sea, but there is only one ocean. So we warm and re-warm the surface of love til the gyres and tides evaporate and only the moonlit salt remains. With that, I swim to shore and we wait to cure, as if this long storm has all been a fantastic misunderstanding. I need to tell you something:
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