the Examined Life Journal |
HANNAH BAGGOTT
carrot juice, and that woman still won’t have an arm—will still be pushed back to her hospital bed, leaving a trail of snotty tissues until infection sets in. There is a space between guilt and shame that makes a mess of the conscience—the place where no one is behind the divider in the confession booth, the place where I’m sorry doesn’t exist. Here, the woman’s rhythm will rot in my hands until every sneeze stops reminding me of her.
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