BluestoneReview

Anyone home? By CJ Farnsworth What has me confused is I’m not sure whether my son is here. Here is home. Where I am always wondering where I am, but this confusion isn’t about me. It’s about the tee-shirts folded and stacked on the bed. It’s about chewing gum and the smell of watermelon and the way I’ve agreed to unbrace from the existence of bloated and floating fish in the tank, especially the one that exploded leaving his dark peel, like a small windsock rippling against the pull of the filter. This confusion is not about spitting out seeds of purpose, the purpose of life, of creating life, of losing it, that confusion—the rendering and distillation of purpose confusion—is water in the den despite rerouting the gutters, field mice finding their way in. It’s more about the untuned

guitar standing in the living room dragging its beautiful graffiti strap and that song about even when I’m thin I’m fat, but I am not confusing confusion with fret. My husband grows like moss in the kitchen, so dense sleep is born on his cheek. I keep my nose close to him, so marvelously green, but his blanketing comfort is confusing too. My confusion should offer you something—a slice of sweet, nutty bread, a flower to picture in a bud vase on old shelf screwed

48

Made with FlippingBook Digital Publishing Software