(no subject)

[apiphile]

autobiography written in november weather

i passed the monarchy the other night--
the bar, not the concept of superiority in-born which blights my nation like a mental virus ineradicable from the minds of those
who'd rather bow at the knees
than open their thoughts and admit the possibility
that they're just as good as everyone else--
and recalled as the sky opened up wet and relentless on my unsuitable head
(and body, wrapped in the hide of a cow long-dead, studded with silver, gold, and enamel)
when the venue was called
the moon under water
and instead of laughing at how appropriate it was
that the wet moon was defaced by self-importance
not so long after a royal funeral
i remembered instead with a jolt
the only time i'd been there was also the only time
i'd ever danced with a friend now-deceased
and i couldn't have the memory in peace: it slid a letter-opener blunted blade between the slats of my ribcage
and smacked out my breath in the cold autumn air
and left me wondering as i ascended the street like a pentinent to a shrine--
joining the end of the mountain goats' line--
what is the evolutionary function of grief?
is there a reason i feel like this?
does it keep the species alive to have a heart-attack when we spy the ghosts
of the people we have to miss?
perhaps we'd have gone dancing more often if we'd had more time;
but i knew as i shivered at the back of the queue, bumped by umbrellas and soaked right through,
that the memory doesn't confer a change in behaviour to new situations, new faces, new friends:
we make the same mistakes, face the same hurdles, reach the same ends.
my grief has no purpose
it's just ripples of a life past on the rushing days at the surface,
and like bubbles of long-lost breaths it'll sink again,
and i'll enter this roundhouse and dance
without my friend.