Anything too dear in your odd affection spirits toward mirth and issues to air. Your white teeth open, the dear thing dies in laughter. Then your face is whole again.
Washed in the soul-splitting grin of the black-man: “Look at her[,] she won’t wave back. Treat everybody nice. I get on better with you folks [whites] than I do with my own.”
“Surfacing,” Margaret Atwood
“No gods to help me now, they’re questionable once more, theoretical as Jesus. They’ve receded, back to the past, inside the skull, is it the same place. They’ll never appear to me again. I can’t afford it; from now on I’ll have to live in the usual way, defining them by their absence; and love by its failures, power by its loss, its renunciation. I regret them; but they give only one kind of truth, one hand.”
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)