He asked,
“must you see the lump-of-coal lining
in everything?" and I said yes.
Years before, a friend had noted,
“You are like some kind of black hole.”
These are the iceberg's hazy tip.
I recalled such words yesterday,
just after keeping my fluish daughter
in galooping stitches for two hours,
as we lay on the bed, myself,
quaking with exhaustion throughout,
from yet another spastic troll
through a brilliant white sleep.
So you understand the gift of coal.
I understand the gift of coal. Been accused of the same thing my entire life. My father even used to gift me a lump of coal every year in my Christmas stocking. There are only a few who can transform that under the pressure of life's geology into diamonds. Or perhaps impure graphite in my case.
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