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82

A Letter to Whoever Is Running This

Kai Moreno

Prose poem · Faith · Wonder

To whoever is running this: I am not writing to complain. I want that on the record first, because everyone writes to you to complain, and you must be so tired of the mail. I am writing to say that the pomegranate is ridiculous. That you did not have to make the inside look like that. That a thing we eat could have been plain, could have been a potato, and instead it is a chandelier of small red rooms, and no one asked you to, and you did it anyway. I am writing to say I noticed. I am writing to say that if this is all there is — the pomegranate, the light on the taxis, the particular person asleep in the other room breathing like the tide coming in — then it was, on balance, worth the trouble of existing, and I withdraw, provisionally, every complaint I have not yet sent.

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Up nextThe Inventory of Small MerciesSome days the mercy is small and you have to look for it. A dog that decides you are worth crossing the road for. The bus that waits. The stranger who says take your time, and means it, in a country not built for taking time. I keep a list because I am the kind of person who forgets, by evening, that the morning was survivable. Item: the way the light came through the one clean window. Item: that no one, today, asked me how I was really doing, which was itself a mercy, because I did not have the answer folded small enough to hand across a counter. Item: I was, at three in the afternoon, for the length of one song in a corner shop, completely and stupidly happy, and did not question it — which is the rarest item, the one I am always losing, the one I write down first.