i hope the anonymous person who sent the “i used to live in your house. i’m drunk in boston and it’s the only address i know. happy holidays” postcard is aware that they wrote my favourite poem
“there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so gorgeous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.”
— Ross Gay, excerpt of “Sorrow Is Not My Name”, in Bringing the Shovel Down
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