What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

{1} We lie awake at night…


The world didn’t end, yet again, for me, though I won’t claim that for anyone else, not with the only understanding I have sitting stuck between my own ears, never knowing whether pain is a constant between us, even if I am always in pain and you are too, never know whether joy just feels different under my skin than it does at your lower levels, traveling along energy highways from tip to tip to tip. I’ll never get the chance to know if it is right for you to find your peace in noise like I do, never see the future you see lying up at night hoping for pieces of your lovers mouth and throat to disappear so that here and now you can just get some sleep. I love your mouth and its feel, but I’ll never know what it takes to see it for yourself in the mirror, tremor at the push and tug to plug it all back into what seems to be the right places. In space, nothing ever really stops moving and I know that truth can only be seen through a telescope, or at least, I hope I know that right, or maybe this will be better said, in spite of everything I’ve seen, I know that nothing physical ever stops moving, even in death, and it would be a beautiful surprise to wake and find that this life lived in flux was just practice for an ever-over-interweaving-after.


Despite the most recent interval, I feel nothing but drained, straining to place letters in words in sentences on this page, robbed of rage and buried in extra-frozen snow, no, not ice or frost, lost in the middle of week four when more of what I could have expected is all that I can see ahead. I dread the dead prospects most, those ghosts that get so dry and snarky with the me that I am when lying alone in the dark—are we ever not alone in the dark?—I know or I think I know (and so know nothing at all) that I could call out, pray for a spark to outlast the extended sigh escaping me almost always these days, say me, me, tell me where to go from this here and how to find a lovely there among the spectres with ugly stares, I’m not scared, at least not consciously so, no physical fight or flight readiness in the slightest sense, dense and dumb, stumbling tired and soggy through the end of this line and maybe just maybe onto the next
I’m giving you all I am…

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What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com





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