the enso

"Just before the pregnant pause gives birth" by marlowe

the opinion

My Enso Muse went MIA around mid January. After several days, I searched the darkest, furthest corners of the kitchen pantry. I scoured closets. I peeked behind each dusty bookcase.

Nada.

I almost considered filing a Missing Person Report.

She left me a jar of cookies. Asked me not to despair.

In the meantime, I find myself wandering the house while cradling my pen and notepad. I continue to meditate dutifully. I fantasize that she will decide to return unannounced, like always, whether as a delicate surprise or …

I wait. I sit in my desert. There are no desserts here.

the enso

"It Boils Down To This" by marlowe

the poem

Your efforts — voluntary or conscripted —
have been reduced like a soup’s broth
to this rod of stone piercing
through the center of a plaza. You are
memorialized, the destiny manifested,
and each subsequent settlement,
every march Westward,
is now a roadside plaque, a whisper.
Do you care? Did you
believe in the cause as you drank
water from cracked pueblo pottery
or did you bend to obligation, either way
succumbing to someone else’s
yoke. Was your family given
gold or a legua of land in payment
for your service? Do you sit
with the pigeons when you visit
this site? Do your descendants recognize
your sacrifice, so duly noted? Do they stop
to read the names or see the birth
of an empire later reduced to etchings
and artifacts, set aside as another
opportunity opened?