by Nora Rawn
Types of Love I Comfort Myself with While Being Single in the New Year
The purity of two toddlers at the airport gate, exchanging toys,
no common language, possessions held out in mute offering,
blond curls and dark bob conferring back and forth on the carpet
The parental argument over a possible gift for their only daughter,
watching them debate my needs and wants, desiring only
to remain here in this absurd moment, needing no more than that
How too-intense connection can veer into panic, the sudden intensity
of intimacy before an imminent departure, the permission
to go beyond the pale, staying in bed longer before the plane leaves
The acceptance of a small glowing glass of tawny port at the end of the bar,
the flush of color in drinking too quickly, the rich smell of the stovetop,
Charlotte at the far side of the counter, missing her already,
The assistance of strangers at the mahjong table, sorting out your tiles,
green and white stacked on baize, their patience as you fumble,
their willingness to beat you as you hesitate under the soft table light,
The quiet calm of the stray dog once captured, that docility,
trust of wherever the universe takes them, trust for the man at the shelter,
his confidence handling the leash, his late night kindness,
The Scarlett O’Hara generosity of strangers of it all, the audience seated
rapt on the floor listening to stories, to poems, quiet attention,
joy of community, of communion,
The way twenty years later, one can reunite and be unchanged,
changed only in wanting less, wanting only this, to make things,
to be together, to commit to the bit,
And finally with the unknown birdsong in the trees and on the telephone wire,
the whole symphony of the living world calling out to be heard,
which is, all told, more than enough to be going on with
Thoughts on How to Live
Best of all is not to look backwards,
that’s what gives a person motion sickness
or sickness of the soul perhaps, vague malaise,
the endless spiral of questioning,
even if hurtling forward heedlessly has its issues,
admittedly, you can run straight into something like that,
smack dab into the center without even seeing it beforehand,
get a headache from the impact, not to mention being humiliated,
forewarned is forearmed, but sometimes you’d rather not know,
that’s why they also say ignorance is bliss,
suppressing the panicked alarm signals, no worries,
full speed ahead, plow on, get into the car crash, careen blindly,
probably no advice is applicable to all circumstances,
and I’ve resented the advice I’ve taken,
resented the advice I haven’t, obscurely blamed
those who did or didn’t tell it to me straight,
some situations are like Schrodinger’s cat,
and realistically you’re not responsible for if the cat is dead,
it may have had its terminal issues beyond your control,
which most things are, such that acceptance may be the best watchword,
mine is always “it will be fine,” words to live by,
usually true but every so often not at all, strictly false even,
you don’t have the children you wanted, for example,
or a shark actually comes and takes you away,
no one would expect that but it happened,
things do happen and keep happening, for instance
the armed thugs disappearing people killed someone,
so maybe the best advice is really not to be ruled by fear,
to live bravely, to live in community and use it for fuel,
that’s my advice, to be thankful, thanking the conductor,
thanking the shoveler, thanking everyone nonstop,
affirming that yes, we should die for one another, if it comes to that
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Nora Rawn works in subrights in publishing and lives in Brooklyn. She has had pieces published in Dreck Lit, Be About It Press, Electric Pink, Tap Into Poetry, Burial Magazine, Some Words, and more. She spends too much time on twitter @norabird.