Rapunzel reads the news
Sitting at the window, I repeat to myself: the project is to grapple with my inability to comprehend or speak about my world. From my castle, my ivory tower, my highest, whitest horse, I can read all about it — 87 are dead in Aleppo, 26 in Connecticut— all safely within view, and unreachable. Next to me, a book about a genocide my very own family survived. Somewhere on the horizon, my very own death, at a considered and clinical distance. Far.