Conjure the nouns, alert the secret self, taste the darkness. . . speak softly, and write any old word that wants to jump out of your nerves onto the page. . .
-Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
The mark on the door jamb. The combination. The locket. The circle on the calendar. The taste of his mouth. The recipe. The receipt. The dice. The route.
Changing the filter. The menu. The tooth. The thanks before dinner. The linebacker’s name. The sequence. The shoes. The envelope. The year. The rules.
The phone number. Her favorite song. The breast exam. The pull-out couch. The green felt. The tickets. The Frontline. The stamp. The 29th president. The repairman. The will.
That I’m not straight. The French for erase. The first knot. The neighbor’s wife. The soup pot. How to change a tire. The promise. The lyrics. The sound of his snoring. The pattern. The painter. The cat. The buttons. The lie.
How deep to plant them. How hard to press. The hip. The question. The punch line. The yes. The penguin. The turn signal. The fry oil. The way in. Continue reading “Things I’ve Forgotten”
Shannon E. Williams 