“In the house of poetry, nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.”
–Pablo Neruda, 1971
Can barely write today. Nothing by rage and sadness like winds ripping through my house. I feel like an animal clawing at the unseen, whipping around, clawing, clawing.
Feel like I’m living in two realms. One: get up, be with the children as much as you can. Put Mama on like a mask so they don’t see the animal I’m turning into. The other: A wounded animal, uncaged, crashing through the forest. Nothing but rage. Bright hot, chemical rage.