This post was submitted by corey

A note to readers: today I turn another year older. As the passage of time continues to rather morbidly remind me of mortality, I have decided – after about 17 months of working for TNG – to take an break indefinitely from the grind of weekly writing and publishing. I hope to be back soon, perhaps not a younger man, but at least with some newly-born ideas. Until then, take care.

Motherhood, or Death in Pieces

We grow a set of teeth. We lose a set of teeth. We grow a set of teeth. We lose a set of teeth.

A careless spill stains a new sweater.

Think of all the things we throw away. Cans, papers, unread mail, detergent bottles, love letters, medical bills, kleenex, spoiled food, youth. Enough trash to fill our homes and graves, carried away in unseen trucks.

Years ago I saw a boy fight with his mother in a theatre. He was ashamed of her maternal status, her womanhood, her aged conceptions. They left without seeing the film. I realized that night that my life had been wasted.

Lost socks. Saved schoolwork.

The very idea that to build muscle, we must tear it first. That to grow stronger, we must eat more. That to grow leaner, we must eat less. That we must run, but then must stretch, so as to slow the inevitable decay of our knees and our slow collapse into the streets.

In chastity we fight our will to lose. In orgasm we lose our will to fight.

I hem an old pillow with a trash bag twisty tie.

There is nothing to create anymore, only things to tidy and clean. Our motherhood fallen from bringing life into light to simply washing and scrubbing and making old faces look new again.

Crumbs are everywhere, little chunks of pleasures past. No matter how many times I sweep beneath the sofa.

I see you and I smile. I’m fucked. You’re fucked. I know you still think of me and cry.

Death comes in pieces, one heartbeat at a time.

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