I have written this poem before

and it never ends any differently. 

Sometimes it would be easier to sink into the waters off “beautiful Nauset” and not come back.

The earth seems angry lately and people post or share Facebook posts asking, “who hurt you?” while simultaneously dumping their Dunkin Donuts styrofoam cups out of windows driving along any of the major or minor highways. Who hurt you. Who hurt you. Styrofoam takes billions of years to degrade; houses can be washed away in a moment, and we are callous enough to “jest at scars” when we “never felt a wound.” I want to hold the earth and convince it to hold itself together.

Here: I saw it back in March and should have figured sooner, but didn’t. Belated understanding means staring at cliffs and being shocked when there’s an avalanche. I can try digging myself out but the effort to be cool expends itself and I fall apart. Who hurt you? My fingers bend out of shape and I look at the snow pressing down. Who hurt you.

I did it myself. And I wanted to be chill, but can’t be. I have written this poem every time, and Achilles always gives in to old Priam. Take the body, appeal to the earth, return to the sea. He’s not coming back.


Author: jillboger

Part time writer. Editor-in-Chief for the Bridge volume 13, former EIC for The Odyssey at BSU. My glasses protect my secret identity.

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