The Hunt

I think I have written about how difficult it seems to create lately. It could be my stomach medicine, that also helps with my depression and anxiety, dulling my creativity. At least the world doesn’t feel so bleak, even though the world does end for someone, somewhere, at every moment. The opposite of chaos is creation, I remind myself of that all the time. Even in a chaotic world, our ability to create, to imagine, must survive. I used to think that being an artist meant to be indulgent, to escape, to not have anything useful to say. Now, I know that it is through our art, through our creating, that we counter the chaos, the destruction, the death, that we witness and experience. It is not enough. I know this. But what are our options? To stay silent? To bear witness, and never process it? To live so hollow, that we forget that we are responsible to each other?

I will say, the meds, they’re working.

There is light on my fingertips
a calling
the hunt
a bow and arrow
a deer
we lock eyes
I pull the draw string
life and death between my hands
I hear rustling and look away
I return my gaze
the deer is no longer there
this poem has alluded me yet again

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