“The Emigration of Love” in Boulder Weekly

We slowly walk along the canyon trail. Below us, the creek roars — seems a swift-coursing vein, flowing to Ocean, where waves become waves, travel and pulse onto shores. I’ve been walking these wilds for some time, ever since having discovered them as a child. I’ve been collecting fragments — potsherds — stories of origin. I’ve stored them in a reliquary, shaped like a page that always returns to blankness. Each of the fragments appears as the syllable of a name. I’ve been arranging them for years, listening for a voice to speak — though I’ve never been able to see, as in the reflection of a stream, a face that resembles the feeling I feel as I look on the world. In what follows, I’ve re-arranged the remnants in the form of an essay, in hopes that they’ll sing together in chorus, linking things linked where links are unseen.
At the age of eighteen, for the first time I saw the woman in whose womb I grew — whose flesh and blood birthed my own. I saw myself in my birth-mother’s eyes…

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