Susan Bruce lives in Brooklyn, NY. She has a chapbook, Body of Water, with Finishing Line Press and poems published in december, Barrow Street, 805, YESYES Books, Yes Poetry, No Dear, WSQ, SWWIM, Finery, Dirty Chai and Luna Luna. Susan has an MFA in acting. IMY MOTHERWRITES EMAILS IN ALL CAPS IS SHE ALMOST BORN OR DEAD? I SINK INTO THE INSISTENCE. She doesn’t see it. She could realize it, if she wanted, my spells of feeling unprepared for her to be THIS OLD. I am still like a small child barely out of diapers. I get around to thinking things. I face the job of dealing with, accumulating since birth. The questions I am suited for have been waiting for me all along and have no right to leave me. IIThrilled as I am to bring home a different color everyday, the terrible coinciding reality says to me You are not paying close attention. There are strong medicines for this. Puppet shows. Fortune cookies. Remember that one of us is the ocean, straight forward and frontal, out of time, in radiance. IIIDrawing on a private source of awakened wisdom, I mull over how time goes around doesn’t it? Every morning my sourdough starter asks the same questions; How are you? Why did you get out of bed that way? I expected to be with my parents the rest of my life. And with the pain they brought me. They are in living color, a lasting hold. The Elderly do not respond with bodies that respond right away. Each one awakens in the silvery swell of unruly joints. I conduct myself with an inheritance of patience suspecting some part of every parent is a genius. IVGeorgia O’Keefe is forever the real this &
the real that. If I find the time, and I swear never to shoot with the townsfolk, I’m headed to Abiquiu. The wind picks up. The wind is returning home. Good for America. Good for what saves. Good when you believe in having fun. In the flustered and gracious sea I swim with a fondness for blue poofs of waves called here-we-are-altogether-again.
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