Breadcrumb #645

LUCINDA KEMPE

The poet sent a photograph of “frost-sad” primroses growing in his English garden. 

“Today is your fuck day,” my husband said earlier. 

This is what he says every Friday. It is a game he plays. I sent the poet a reply photograph titled “Primroses in a pot on plates” only to realize they were cyclamens after I’d sent the Tweet. 

I’m losing my mind. 

Snow fell overnight, a bare inch and a half, enough to powder the ground. My hellebore, planted next to the cesspool, sometimes blooms in winter. My Manx made a fast, morning dash into the yard, almost invisible but for the gray fur heart on his side. I named him Dart, which suits his manner and his coat. He had a tail when he arrived, but lost it to cancer. 

Jenny Diski died of cancer last April, not long after finishing her book. The poet is holding a reading in her honor in London on January 12th. I won’t be attending. 

I’m planted on this side of the Atlantic, waiting, watching a gray heart gamboling in snow.

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