To Meg, and the End of Capitalism
Is it time to mourn yet?
I’m waiting for the end of the story.
I guess they call it a punch line because without it, you’re stuck anticipating the impact, wincing at what might be. Everything hits harder in the future.
I dreamed last night it was a joke, or an accident, something unintentional and light. You walked back out of the woods confused at all the commotion, innocently unaware. I shook you. “Did you think this was a game?” I said. I was angry. “It’s been weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” you stammered.
“I thought you were dead.”
And I do think you’re dead.
But I’m not sure what that means. I’m not sure what it changes. I keep taking pictures of things to send to you. I keep imagining what you’d say in response to whatever I’m thinking. I can predict it with fair accuracy. I could tell you what era of you was doing the talking depending on what you’d say. A year ago, you’d have railed against the men involved, however they were involved, how this was another example of the chronic pain of patriarchy. A year before that, we’d have talked about the magic in it, about Kurt Cobain maybe, about how he’d like it if we left lavender blossoms by the river in Olympia.
