I sniff after the sparrow and the spaniel, flitting around, barking, digging up the dirt: how could I not be at one with them? But I'm a spendthrift too, rummaging about old sport coats, selecting a style, a clash of styles— in a private moment trying to decide who I am today by trying on something discarded, something nobody treasured— I think I want everyone and everything to be loved so much I get dour, chastising, dark, and sometimes hate so much I can't go for a stroll without recycling the moment they dropped acid on my palm, the thousand ways I could ease their demise—dipping them into a river of invective that seems futile and enticing—whether it’s the Secretary of State or a species of white shirts and thin black ties who exude smugness, who quote from the bible as if it were the Bible. It's like having an affair— they all end badly, don't they?—thereby the passion flies out of me like an open window in February: take the heat, world, disperse it before I undress another thought.
From True Faith by Ira Sadoff. Copyright © 2012 by Ira Sadoff. Reprinted with permission of BOA Editions. All rights reserved.