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My Death for Now
I have settled down to watch the branches growing vertically from two dead limbs. It's what I do all day. I raise my left arm and hunch my shoulder over. My leg is asleep, which is my death for now, although sometimes I raise both arms and let the fingers turn on the vertical branches; then my hands are dead, not just my leg. It is the middle of January and there is a sheet of ice and there are berries and leftover leaves and even a few old weed stalks. I wave my fingers—there is little wind— I arch my neck—there is a twisted trunk against a wire fence. It is a window I sit in. I am marking a day for wisdom. I give that to myself. I give myself a day for mercy. I turn my hand arond; it is an amaryllis. The wrist is bent, the fingers are spread. I give myself a basket; I brought it from Pennsylvania; I put the flower inside the basket. The wire is forgeous. The handle was rubbed by German farmers. It was filled by yellow peaches. There is a certain dryness that makes them small and juicy. Too much rain will make them mealy, or stringy. I touch my lips to the little leaves; it is the flower of fruits, delicate, aromatic, yet they are heavy, they weigh the basket down. I stretch my palms; I look at them in awe. I straighten my fingers. I bend for water. I drink the snow. I lie on my stomach drinking snow. Two of the peaches are bruised. I turn them around. I try to keep them free of each other. I do it by concentration. I blink one eye; and frown. That is the dream, just sitting and thinking—frowning; that is the joke, the juices running down. I bend like a bee, I lean to the left, one hand is at my neck, the other is on my cheek. I wipe my chin. I may as well count the leaves—buried in the snow; I might as well listen to the diesels or bring the squirrels back and watch them dig. That was September, the end of summer, my window was open, a dwarf was singing in my bedroom, there were books spread all over the porch, with pencils inside, there were mosquitoes still, my birch was turning, the noise was insane, birds were screaming, walnuts were dropping on the roof. I might as well die from the past; I might as well die from longing.
Gerald Stern
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:hi:
RL
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