In Limbo is no late

I miss the combination of prompts that was a Sunday Whirl wordle and an image from Magpie Tales.
Thank you, Brenda, for hanging in there with the words.
I paired this week’s batch

with Miz Quickly’s Limbo Week prompt, to answer the Actors’ Studio questionnaire.
If you’re interested:
1. Joy
2. Fleshy
3. The wind
4. Righteousness
5. Train in the distance
6. Microphone feedback
7. Shit
8. I wish I were a potter
9. President
10. Hey, it’s okay–it is nothing like they said it would be.

And I rolled that allĀ around and around and it came up:


The god of manufactured homes had something else in mind,
slipped on a boatload of bananas, and fell a spectacular fall.
While he cartwheeled, while he brushed off his dignity, units
continued to roll off the line. Unblessed houses. In decline

from birth. Totems of incompletion melt into weedy lots. A drift
of gray leaves, years deep, in the angle of a planned addition
that would have been grand: crenelated tower jutting at the sky
like a stubborn chin, an in-ground swimming pool. Dreams melt.

I am unfinished, and my weeds have literary names.
An east wind jangles my window frames like chimes.
I can’t wrap my arms around me tightly enough to keep
myself whole when the night burns with unwarm stars.

One summer, I played the potter–centered on a wheel, kicking
like an engine. I squashed all my mistakes with joyful violence,
turned them into unformed mud again, began. I dream sometimes,
that I grew up and, godlike, make and smash mud pies.





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