Julie E. Bloemeke And under this storm I climb within myself to tell you the truth: that my brain has begun otherwise, seeking out the memory of him, triggering itself, going over and over the scenes again, burning in want. I’ve tried it all: distraction, the gin, the prayer, the patient therapists, the meds. I am left with another possible pearl: contact. The price of this. And you turn to me, kiss my forehead, my lips, take my face in the cup of your hands as you have so many times over our fifteen years. You say: find him. Write him. We will love each other even through. And then, after we make love, after the rain stops her rivulets on the glass, you bring my hand to my chest, speak further: Write truth. You are called for this. And before I can answer: You think he is the story, but the book is you. Neither of us can know what doors we will unleash, what bodies of water we will undam. But now we’ve invited the lightning.
Crab Orchard Review
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