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•฀฀38฀฀• On Not Letting Go It’s฀an฀illness,฀like฀a฀mudslide฀of฀driftless฀graves, so฀she฀keeps฀on฀moving. Each฀new฀town฀has฀its฀spines฀and฀arteries. The฀Woolworths,฀Starbucks,฀Blimpees manufacturing฀a฀true฀impression not฀unlike฀life.฀The฀drugstore’s฀neon scizzoring฀lazer฀and฀amber฀in฀the฀summer’s฀dark. Mostly฀she฀wishes฀she฀could want฀again—want฀anything— The฀way฀her฀lover’s฀groin฀would฀twitch each฀time฀she฀touched฀a฀near฀vein,฀and฀touched only฀in฀a฀particular,฀mercurial฀way. Who else by now has traveled there? The฀mind’s฀poison฀making฀too฀many฀wrong฀turns. All฀the฀myriad฀ways฀our฀days฀drift,฀and฀we฀drift with฀them,฀acquainted฀and฀lost. At฀first฀it฀all฀feels฀purposeful, apples฀ripe฀and฀blazing฀in฀the฀orchard, but฀hunger฀breaks฀us฀like฀a฀wide฀sky. Soon,฀our฀hands฀become฀the฀hands฀of฀someone we฀vaguely฀remember,฀gaunt฀and฀desperate, holding฀too฀tightly฀to฀days yawning฀white with฀space. ...

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