For me, Twitter is a working out. I went for months of tweets with not much more than a gull, weeks with just a time of day (noon), and days, most recently, with just the cootie catcher.
My suites center on the quick and the dead:
At my aunt’s funeral, my uncle called my name. That was all.
It was spring when she died. My uncle lived to not see another spring summer fall, to not open a blind. We buried him in the cold.
The silver cord, the golden bowl, the long home. The cord slips, the bowl cracks, the long home.
Something you don’t see in a Christmas pageant: the slaughter of the innocents. But there it is, in the middle of Matthew’s account.
Matthew’s baby Jesus is peripatetic, dodging bullets & fulfilling scripture. “Out of Egypt have I called my son.” “He shall be called a Nazarene.”
Luke: baby Jesus with the lambs. Matthew: baby Jesus on the lam.
Across from the school, a cemetery. Twenty-six stockings hang there tonight.