PRAYER #3 - sean lovelace


sean lovelace

My spouse lives his life like he has another. Tucked away somewhere. In a leather wallet. Or very clean sink. I can’t believe: his mantra, as the afternoon bleeds into night. That someone would swim in such cold water. An odd odor on the air, burning leaves—who burns leaves in a bathroom? That X is sleeping with Y. While I sleep with Z. Z being the gravel that lines the birdfeeder so the weeds don’t grow. Z being cheekbones and vocabulary. Z being last Sunday morning, out by the creek, as I watched a submerged snake fishing for minnows, darting out in silverish wire—strum, strum, strum. So much beauty I shuddered. So much I went inside. Smoked a joint. Pushed a few words around. Put on my running shoes, and off to church. Finally, the streets washed-out and empty. This town in their boxes. And I’m rolling out 7 minute miles. The sting of sweat. The sweet quivering muscle. Everything so back-lit, so vivid, the perfect grip of running: alone, alive, and flowing. Amen.

Sean Lovelace
The Lover
Marguerite Duras