mossyanecdote

[mossyanecdote]

ɪɴ ᴊᴜɴᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴛɪʟʟ sᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ.

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Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies

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How to Resurrect Your Lover (a step-by-step guide)

The first step is the hardest part. You have to cut the flesh open and pull out the bones. Clean them, remove tendons, veins, other viscera. Be gentle with it. This is the flesh you know by touch, by smell. You are no vulture, you are God, a mother creating a child from the foundation out, you are grieving.

Lay out the spine. The backbone, a sickly white serpent, writhing without writhing on the grass.

Fit in the ribs like fitting spokes on a wheel, cement them in place with bits of chewed communion.

Pelvis next, a cradle, not quite like yours. Smaller. But a cradle still.

The femur, then fibula and tibia as a pair. They cannot go without each other. Hear them weeping.

Lay the patella down gently, for it is still bruised from praying.

Count the foot and hand bones carefully. Lay them as saintly relics, puzzle pieces, bits of broken ceramics lain back together.

The tiny bones in the ears: even those too, lain in place. You are no artist with liberties to take, you are a clockmaker, repairing a watch.

The heart is next. You have hidden it in a box for safekeeping. Lay it in its cage and let it tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Let it flutter like a red dove. Train your own heart along with it, let them sound to the same frequency, sing the same melody.

Wrap him all up in bandaids, hot glue, sweet nothings, and a rosary, then lay him by the rosemary to set.

Wonder if this is what God felt like building Adam from scratch. Was creation this bloody?

And when his flesh grows back, embrace him. Hold him tight with his blood on your hands because there are no happy endings, only who is left.

Congratulations, you now know the meaning of divine guilt.

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November

November is here and I am tired again. 

A person I knew in high school cut their finger in a door in seventh grade

And spoke about it for years afterward. 

It always bothered me to hear them speak as if their finger was worth grieving. 

But now I am here, standing in the cold. 

The wind clings to my leg

A frightened girl missing her mother. 

She is alone, as I am, in an Urgent Care parking lot

Where little girls get left to wait for strangers 

To pick them up

And high schoolers grieve their long-healed injuries. 

November is here and I am lonely again. 

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I am good. I am loved.

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“Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.”

— Max Ehrmann; Desiderata

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I present, my top three ship dynamics that I have used in my stories:

Tough as nails, flirty bastard.

Chill extrovert (could kill you), chill introvert (could kill you)

Wonderful beautiful kind tender a gift from the divine, a mess.

[mossyanecdote]

I present, my top three ship dynamics that I have used in my stories:

Tough as nails, flirty bastard.

Chill extrovert (could kill you), chill introvert (could kill you)

Wonderful beautiful kind tender a gift from the divine, a mess.

[mossyanecdote]

May Sarton, The Poetry of May Sarton

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three ravens greet me in the garden

curious, laughing amongst themselves

from the heavens they guard my passing

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Words

He was always a man of few words. He spoke little to have something to say. He wrote to remember. He navigated in the embrace of rhymes, where time does not exist. Even when he got lost, each verse was an eternal moment. He tattooed his memories with words.

Today, each sunrise is a new starting point. A blank page, a riddle to unravel. The memories, once vivid, are nothing but fleeting winds. The words fade like birds flying without a destination. And the dear faces are nothing more than forgotten shadows, lost in his inner labyrinth.

The heart, a trembling, hesitant beacon, incessantly searches for a patch of solace. It does not know the steps to this dance of forgetfulness. It is unaware that a writer without memories is a writer without words.

And his best poem is the one he will never be able to write.

Alzheimer's.

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— Vladimir Nabokov

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August throws her gown

Of lace and gold

Over the side of the road.

She wrings my hands

As one wrings water from a rock

And sings to me in the voice of a million cicadas

About the end of things.

I suppose if this should be the end of things,

at least

August is kind.

—mossy anecdotes, August 2024

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Mary Oliver, from New & Selected Poems of Mary Oliver; "A Meeting,"

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Adela Florence Nicolson, from a poem titled “When Love Is Over: Song of Khan Zada,”

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Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, from her novel titled "The Last Man," published in 1826

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