Iain Grinbergs
They often wander along the artificial lake and ruffle their way through the small beech-colored field behind my rented apartment. I still wonder what they eat. I could look it up, but sometimes I’d rather not have an answer. I wonder, too, how they stay warm here in a North Florida winter—their feathers don’t seem adequate. But who am I to critique creation? God, I hope this poem doesn’t sound like a knock-off Mary Oliver. But if that’s what I’m worrying about, I’d say, for now, I’m doing quite well. Often, though, nothing ever feels enough. I hope I don’t sound dramatic, but I’ve looked up assisted suicide. You need to join a Zen monastery first. I’d just like to go out silently, not cause any fuss. I’d just like to disappear into myself like a mindful black hole. I’ve lived long enough to know that to get through the day, we must count small successes, like how I’ve stopped picking my right thumb; how, at this moment, I do not crave alcohol.
IAIN GRINBERGS (he/they) is a PhD student in creative writing at Florida State University. He’s a finalist for Black Lawrence Press’s Fall 2021 Black River Chapbook Competition. You can find his recent work in Wilderness House Literary Review and forthcoming from Ghost Parachute and Juke Joint.
