FEEDING SQUIRRELS ON A ONELANEBRIDGE
Cattle corn spread on the single LaneBridge—the trap. Food or safety? There are plenty of other choices; my disease sees none of them. Gluttony and danger the perfect combination. How can I resist? Why would I resist? I have to have more. I cannot depend on my nature, the ability God gave me to survive in my environs. Help must come from outside, and must be wild and dramatic. Inward help is boring, subtle, tiresome. Where’s my image? My excitement?
How am I going to prove my God worthy without too much, without perilous risk and rescue? I can’t. I can’t prove my God, and my God doesn’t need to prove anything to me. I can find my way, off the beaten path, away from the prying eyes of rubberneckers. No cheers from the crowd are necessary. I have the equipment. It came standard. If I look at the controls and follow the twelve step tutorial, I should be able to manage just fine. No Mack truck in my face, as I stuff myself with ill-gotten grain.
Look deeply into a glass of water searching for mermaids.
Comfort or motivation
these are the two major reasons for building a fire.
Sometimes I set it before me
other times under me.
The warmth can be soothing
and the light dazzling,
but licking flames move me
off the spot like nothing else.
Fuel and surrounds contribute to the effect.
Mental state and personal company
provide dampening or air.
How high the flames rise or how long they burn
varies widely inspiring my passions,
my thoughts, my fears
The conflagration is an apt tool
as long as I don’t go up in smoke.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault