This Connection of Everyone with Lungs Read Free Page B

moments late at night when yous wake up with kindness.
    An attempt to speak away.
    And when I say this what I mean is that I am attempting to speak to yous of these things in order to get out of our bed in the morning in the face of all that happened and is yet to happen, the spinning earth, the gathering forces of some sort of destruction that is endless and happens over and over, each detail more horrific, each time more people hurt, each way worse and worse and yet each conflict with its own specific history, many of them histories that we allowed to be formed while we enjoyed the touch of each others in the night.
    But the more I look at the pattern of the clouds from our bed in the morning, the more it seems the world is spinning in some way that I can’t understand.
    Oh this endless twentieth century.
    Oh endless.
    Oh century.
    Oh when will it end.
    In recent days, I hear rumors that ships are being fueled and then are slipping out of port slowly at night.
    I hear rumors from mothers in the street talking to other mothers.
    I hear rumors from lovers in line at the grocery talking among themselves.
    I hear rumors from friends at parties.
    I hear rumors of ships refueling and of ships slipping out of port while we sleep in our bed, even as I can’t see them in the news.
    In the news I learn that Iraq is ready for war but most people there are too busy to notice the refueling of ships here in my corner of the world and their beginning of that long journey to their corner of the world.
    Even as I can’t see the refueling of ships I see ten killed in the Bureij refugee camp by shells from Israeli tanks on Thursday and then one more killed in Gaza on Sunday and then five in east Nepal by a bomb that might have been set by Maoists and then one hundred and twenty in Monoko-Zohi by various means because of civil war.
    Beloveds, how can we understand it at all?
    Oh how can the patterns stop.
    All I know is that I couldn’t get out of bed anymore at all without yous in my life.
    And I know that my ties with yous are not unique.
    That each of those one hundred and thirty-six people dead by politics’ human hands over the weekend had numerous people who felt the same way about them.
    Chances are that each of those one hundred and thirty-six people dead by politics’ human hands had lovers like I have yous who slipped yours hands between their thighs and who thought when their lovers did this that this is all that matters in the world yet still someone somewhere tells ships to refuel and then to slip out of port in the night.
    Chances are that each of those one hundred and thirty-six people dead by politics’ human hands had parents and children with ties so deep that those parents and children feel fractured now, one or two days later, immersed in a pain that has an analogy only to the intensity of pleasure.
    Chances are that each of those one hundred and thirty-six people dead by politics’ human hands had pets and plants that need watering. Had food to make and food to eat. Had things to read and notes to write. Had enough or had too little. Had beautiful parts and yet also had scars and rough patches of skin. Had desire and had impotence. Had meannesses, petty and otherwise. Had moments of kindness. Were nurtured for years by someone who was so devoted to them that they sacrificed huge parts of themselves to this nurturing and who today feel this loss of what they nurtured so intensely as to find their world completely meaningless today and will for some time after today.
    And yet still someone somewhere tells ships to refuel and then to slip out of port in the night.
    And it doesn’t even end there.
    The Greenland glaciers and Arctic Sea ice melt at unprecedented levels and still a ship fuels up and slips out of port.
    Winona Ryder has thirty prescriptions for downers from twenty different doctors and still a ship fuels up and slips out of port.
    Marc Anthony and Dayanara Torres renew their vows in Puerto Rico and still