Reading “Allegory” by Diane Seuss. And so this today, perhaps to tell. Perhaps to keep:
You had to go to them. They did not come to you.
—being Diane Seuss, on dictionaries.
(Being Diane Seuss also, and effectively, on words.)
*
Elsewhere in the poem, this part—is this not the making of a poem, that she is speaking of? Is this not all writing, that she is speaking of?
I am talking about this part. This part here:
It feels so exact, except that you feel it with a sense you’re not used to feeling with. Like when you recognize a favorite earring, on your tongue.
*
And then there is this:
Can you see with me, what she’s getting at? That way a life feels, when it feels like a body in its worst way. The weight of it, a burden inescapable and ever-growing.
Thick, like sorghum syrup, with experience.
Heavy with memory’s tonnage, such a drag, such a load.
Ever-slowing too:
But then, that last line of it. Like the end of a rope you have been pulling yourself up with, all this time:
I wish I was less, a recipe composed of a single ingredient.
I think of my long obsession with single-varietal wines. How I wanted to learn and understand, and how I thought learning and understanding was best, likeliest, most manageable and doable (maybe even most beautiful, where beautiful meant essential…), when it was done one thing, just one thing, at a time.
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