CA 15-3

i am cursing you, in this oil-rich city, my hands unsteady. the walls are reverberating. it’s cold outside, and sunny, and even in the early afternoon, the wind is brittle. this morning, i watched the sounds of an olympic hockey game–an announcer in a floral suit, rock n’ roll regurgitating–collapse in the corner of this red room. i’m not saying i’m shocked and, let’s be clear, i’m fucking furious, but my thoughts are of science.

sometimes when i walk through the pneumatic doors, past the pale smokers on portable oxygen, and the broken wheelchairs, i think of you–your empty mouth and protein eyes, your thin skin and heartlessness.  i don’t hate you. i don’t hate you when i see a girl running across a soccer field in narrow cleats, or when i see a fresh-faced young woman in a Queen’s sweatshirt unlocking a car door, but i know i could watch another mother waste away.

at times like this, when i catch myself talking to you, i’m always surprised by my words of godliness and pleading, my hypocritical devotion.