Okay
Okay to another headache. Okay to sore eyes, exhaustion, how your teeth never fit together even when at rest. Okay to the ache in the torn knee and the old broken wrist. Okay to the furnace not clicking on this February. Okay to the unanswered texts from your landlord, ignoring you from Kenya. Okay to your only pair of shit-brown eyes. Okay to the driving test jitters and parallel parking with Dad. Okay to your sister’s botched job interview, her plant-strewn apartment, her looming thirties. Okay to the dog crying in the dark bedroom after his surgery. Okay to an itch, say; okay to the hint of a cold in an itch in the back of your throat. Okay to the word losing meaning. Okay. Okay, this is okay. Okay to your mind right now, and now, and now, and now. Okay to clicking on YouTube videos teaching men about confidence from a channel called Charisma University. Okay to the pale rim of flesh around your waist you’ll never burn away. Okay to this broken body. Okay to bodies on top of each other, being gone soon, only a few more nights together. Okay to hopeless sleeping space forever. Okay to worms milling the frozen earth, your father’s white face in the coffin. Okay to the dream of serial murderers wearing pink nightgowns with Michael Jackson’s feline eyes from “Thriller.” Okay to the dog’s anesthesia wearing out, his sluggish licks, his thick trail of puke. Okay to your panic. Okay. Okay to the meme you memorized from the other hateful tribe. Okay to the wish and the denial, to spinach and kale tomorrow. Okay to another list to make you productive, to wake at 5 a.m. and be better at your imaginary job. Okay to your mind right now, and now, and now in its cradle: a baby swallow in your cupped palms, shivering; a raisin-like monkey covered in terrible bites. Okay to the monkey tearing his own skin in the little cage and the stone bodhisattva statue shedding real tears. Okay to the Twitter terror. Okay to the wailing of followers. Okay to the chill nimbus around the full December moon filling your mind with its furious spotlight. Okay to right now. Okay to anime robots with the faces of children flying through rainbows. Okay to spells, spell-books, Toronto Waste Management, banging garbage bins, the enraged woman you always see at Runnymede Station who speaks to herself in whimpers. Okay to holding the dog under the blanket through the long night. Okay to his cries and kissing his domed, fragrant head. Okay to the heater clicking on. Okay to the dog waking up and looking in your eyes.
Spencer Gordon is the author of two
books. More info can be found at www.spencer-gordon.com.
Okay to another headache. Okay to sore eyes, exhaustion, how your teeth never fit together even when at rest. Okay to the ache in the torn knee and the old broken wrist. Okay to the furnace not clicking on this February. Okay to the unanswered texts from your landlord, ignoring you from Kenya. Okay to your only pair of shit-brown eyes. Okay to the driving test jitters and parallel parking with Dad. Okay to your sister’s botched job interview, her plant-strewn apartment, her looming thirties. Okay to the dog crying in the dark bedroom after his surgery. Okay to an itch, say; okay to the hint of a cold in an itch in the back of your throat. Okay to the word losing meaning. Okay. Okay, this is okay. Okay to your mind right now, and now, and now, and now. Okay to clicking on YouTube videos teaching men about confidence from a channel called Charisma University. Okay to the pale rim of flesh around your waist you’ll never burn away. Okay to this broken body. Okay to bodies on top of each other, being gone soon, only a few more nights together. Okay to hopeless sleeping space forever. Okay to worms milling the frozen earth, your father’s white face in the coffin. Okay to the dream of serial murderers wearing pink nightgowns with Michael Jackson’s feline eyes from “Thriller.” Okay to the dog’s anesthesia wearing out, his sluggish licks, his thick trail of puke. Okay to your panic. Okay. Okay to the meme you memorized from the other hateful tribe. Okay to the wish and the denial, to spinach and kale tomorrow. Okay to another list to make you productive, to wake at 5 a.m. and be better at your imaginary job. Okay to your mind right now, and now, and now in its cradle: a baby swallow in your cupped palms, shivering; a raisin-like monkey covered in terrible bites. Okay to the monkey tearing his own skin in the little cage and the stone bodhisattva statue shedding real tears. Okay to the Twitter terror. Okay to the wailing of followers. Okay to the chill nimbus around the full December moon filling your mind with its furious spotlight. Okay to right now. Okay to anime robots with the faces of children flying through rainbows. Okay to spells, spell-books, Toronto Waste Management, banging garbage bins, the enraged woman you always see at Runnymede Station who speaks to herself in whimpers. Okay to holding the dog under the blanket through the long night. Okay to his cries and kissing his domed, fragrant head. Okay to the heater clicking on. Okay to the dog waking up and looking in your eyes.
