March 9, 2020
336: The Obstinate Comedy
March 9, 2020
336: The Obstinate Comedy
The Obstinate Comedy
by Michelle Boisseau
Read the automated transcript.
In the middle of my life I lost my way. I knew my turn was coming, coming around the bend. And there it was. The crows calling over the shoulders of trees stretched the space wider and wider like the circles a focal dragonfly sends around itself on a pond, but ahead of me something was taking up all the space. It was dark and slippery like things that don’t breathe, and it was so humongous I couldn’t see how close it was or get a feel for its edges. The thing was there was no straight way, no mythic down and down a spiraling code to climb up and over a frozen stiff and into a night freshly laid with the standard stars. My way had turned into a knot polished smooth as a platitude and I was to lie down in front of it, stupid and stymied by malignancy. Standing there with my way knobbled, my life (which is all I have to go on) seemed odd as a word turned over and over until it hatches into shatters. By turns the tongue in my mouth was a frog jinking against my palate or a wad of soggy pulp. You can’t talk your way out of this impasse, said the crows. You can’t hold in the rings of time said the trees, switching their branches. And the knot? Naturally it was mum. Obsidian and vitreous, it gleamed like a symbol while the tumored forerunners crabbed my lungs. Breathe deep, turn the tides inside you. In the middle of my life I lost my way (or was it more toward the end?) and I wandered an abrupt gigantic day. I saw the trees were upside down waterfalls and the crows were flying veins of air. Each crow shook its singular crow history, each tree a history of flying in place, a congress of beetles and mushrooms which are the fruit of a tree that grows underground.
"The Obstinate Comedy," by Michelle Boisseau, from AMONG THE GORGONS by Michelle Boisseau, copyright © 2016 University of Tampa Press. Used by permission of University of Tampa Press.