Gillian Ebersole
On Driving Around to Delay the Inevitable
I wake before my alarm. I think about death. perhaps this is because I am a dancer & my knees have begun to ache. my back hurts in the mornings. there is a sense of time ticking when your career is supposed to reach its peak as your body does. perhaps this started when I watched someone go into cardiac arrest after taking adderall or because the last time I saw someone I loved before he died was through a zoom screen or because I was raised in a religion centered on crucifixion. I begged the figure on the cross to wake up. it is 5:59am. I graduated from my childhood bedroom while people died. from a virus, from truncheons, from tainted water. in prison, on the streets, in hospitals, in cages. I am haunted by the way my country was built on death. the person I love is so disturbed by capital punishment & I realize I have never considered it, except for to say it is bad. this is the worst part. it is going to be a dark Christmas. we do not even put up a tree. the snow freezes over & I almost fall every time I leave the house (which is not often). I wonder about cold toes & soft things & if these are compatible. the first time I made love I left my socks on. there is a small dog with a sweater. the snow has never been so white. I longed for this & now all I want is mahogany bookshelves & oak paneling & red wine & a crackling fire. is it death that is inevitable or separation at night? let me sleep.
—Submitted on 12/16/2020
Gillian Ebersole is the author of The Water Between Us, winner of the Charlotte Mew Prize from Headmistress Press (forthcoming in 2021). Her poetry has appeared in Attic Salt, Pomona Valley Review, MAYDAY Magazine, and Weasel Press. A dancer, Ebersole currently works for Jacob’s Pillow Dance Festival.
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