[…] it goes down easier in a storm […]

[… what they call a body of water.]

[…] every year I celebrate the equinox with a catastrophe: body after body. drop after drop. a job well done when all body is water, all cold sweat. after all, it all goes down easier in a storm: tongue-in-cheek, in my native tongue, you would call it liquidated. hence made water, or shot dead. […]

[my native tongue]
[in a throat]

[…] easier in a storm. you need to know nothing but this: most years – most equinoxes – are spent in apnea, highlighting the absences, the silhouettes, the abscess. in a word, the line. […]

[…] becomes line whatever makes me ring: dun, dun, dun. clockwork. or almost. three drinks in I start shooting, start missing when I shoot. year after year, as if by coincidence, I spend the autumn months under water. becoming myself the acrid smell of licorice, the strength of liquor. […]

[a throat]

[…] it goes down easier in a storm, autumn, and isn’t it how all falls stop: the bang, the end, some time around the cusp of the capricorn. I miss most those months I was his morning bride, his evening promise. his boy-body. hollow of all but water. of course, a fall like any other. […]

[easier in a storm]
[like a storm down a throat]

[…] this year has a peculiar spin. most nights he spends with a warm body in his bed; I spend most nights asleep, threaded at needlepoint, at vertebraeism – body treaded like cold water – a body traded for its weight. I spend most days swimming, see most things mid-fall. I live a life of blurring and draw my own conclusions. […]

[– easier –]

[…] what to say but this? and what to do but grab the thread and follow. when I go down like the storm, with the storm, body of water on my own. [...]