Jesus, could the irony be that suffering forms a stronger bond than love?
— David Bottoms
B, I do not address this poem to the Lord, because
I do not believe in the Lord but that you are the Lord.
We are bonded, are we not? After all, do we not cling
to each other in the dark by the cold window?
I don’t know that we’ve suffered the way that people can truly suffer –
in an ulcerous, cancerous, one of us is dying, kind of way (thank the Lord).
Instead, we have a child and a dog and we laugh, so it’s all pretty good.
But, we’ve arrived at middle-life with not much money or exotic experience.
We’ve never been to the musée Rodin, for example.
I feel bad about that. I am to blame.
I was too holy for Big Law, and now they don’t want me and that’s fine
because I still don’t want them. (I’m stubborn as hell, Lord knows.)
But something new happened with this new year, didn’t it?
I handed the public my name. I stopped worrying about the judges.
I said I do not aspire to robes or prizes; I aspire only to be worthy
of my name and your embrace of it.
I am, in short, going for the money because we have suffered so much that
we are really close now, Lord help you.