Kelly Clare, Issue 17.2



On Good Friday, 1930, BBC announced, “there is

no news,” then played piano music, soft.

Inevitability only reaches certainty

in occurrence; I am not picking up the phone

until I am dialing, no news not news until

it is spoken. Between golden

and blue hours is some red minute, but

it all depends on day, or weather, or

place—an offering of here, and this, and for

you. The moon is the same size regardless

of where or horizon. My friend draws

for art class, says she focuses too much

on the body, how it moves and is therefore

most interesting. But the body can’t be

without a room, she explains. The danger of people

who just draw bodies is that they turn them

into the objects of their housing. Later, a child

notices sound from the radiator: “What if it’s

a bird? Or a human, stuck?” We keep

writing books with titles like The Invention of

Solitude and Don’t Let Me Be Lonely. I only

know my entirety from mirrors. Without

them, I am body, seem to end

at the neck.


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