Morus

On Monday I stay up all night.

One thought rolls into another, ideas begetting ideas.

A constellation that mimics a twisted spine. A bouquet of grief, insecurity, and regret.

Mulberry, I learn, means I will not survive you. Another novel fact for my collection.

I am momentarily amused – the idea of ascribing so much to something so benign.

It’s not a small thing to say: I will not survive you. No, it’s the kind of thing that shifts existences.

I’m reminded of Pyramus of Thisbe. I’m reminded of you.

And understanding blooms, because I would not have survived you.

I remember our mulberry tree, all that time we spent beneath it, not knowing.

Maybe this is funny after all.