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To the handful of compost I patted in place around each tomato’s feet, hefted up by the 15-kilo sackful in the market, making old men hit all the right notes of amazement. Half-ask, half-exclaim, “You got that?”. I got it. Weighs more than my cat, less than a toddler, smells better than both. These hips made to sling a load over—I got it.

To the espresso grounds I smooth under the mulch to my strawberry roots, smiling all mother at its brand-new buds. “Hey, you!" to a cantaloupe bulge, water through my fingertips to the fresh seeds. Coriander, cos, kale, radish, mustard green—a girl can dream. Thyme popping its sweet green head out. Hey, you.

To the new composter, to the burning sun on the back of my neck, to the bike trailer rattling along, to the potholes, to the projects, to the possible. A new day. How about that.

as in, those nights where you’re singing without realizing it, where your body just decided some noise should be made, walking the hall past the bookshelf of teas and drygoods. as in the upcoming, man, me and you and a fishing pole, can you imagine? what luck!

as in, time with an old friend and leaning out the bus window as he slaloms by on a longboard, peu importe les ni’poule d’hochelag. as in, handing each other backalley raspberries. as in, crossing a good missed face in the grocery store as you shovel yeast in a bag.

as in, an interview tomorrow and probably nothing wrong with your cat.

drone bell

avam:

in 1847 a man exploded his brother and
wanted to die and
instead became a prize. Hundred years later my neighbor
got thinner and thinner
until she could put both legs
between the bars.
Last month a woman flew
past the windows, hurtled by
as their boots came up the stairs
to come put her on the street.
Yesterday was a birthday of white phosphorus and exploding skin
and every article tastes of ink and ash.

I no longer trust mathematics because it is killing us
because it is a tide pulling my feet
from under me. I put my eyes
in a glass of poetry overnight
but when I wake they are still raw and ragged,
jerking tears at the bus stop
because today a child exploded
like every day.

I want to know who counts the bodies when there is
no body left. Who shakes them,
and what remains inside
to rattle. In what language
these spells will finally work.

Dreaming suddenly of a grand-daughter i can tell about my lovers—the handsome engineering student, the Brooklyn comedian, the math teacher with equations on his arms, the sad filmmaker, the madcap anarchist, the veteran who wished for love so hard that women began to fall out of the trees and left him terrified and more alone than ever  Dreaming of being able to tell them, you know, a heart doesn’t forget, it is a muscle with cells that have marked every beat. Remembered everything and made poems over it. That even though I feel it swell only at the sight of this one, despite the casual and proprietary way I look at men now, secure in some kind of coupled comfort that I can look, feel, and then go about my day, even with all of this I remember them with a fondness that can ache. Wanting to tell stories as resuscitation, a way of gasping them back, if only for a moment.

shouldn’t it really be, it’s not you, it’s us?

fluttering-slips:

My life with a gardener

The screen door firecrackers closed. 
I find her at the sundry drawer 
prowling for twine. I’m nothing 
she sees. There’s a tornado 
in her hair, her face is streaked 
with dirt like markings applied 
before the rituals of drums.
I’ve watched her shadow break free 
and tend the next row of corn. 
I understand this eagerness 
as fully as I can speak for the ocean. 
I say water is behind everything, 
a blue dictator, say waves 
are obsessed with their one word 
but have no idea what that word is. 
Her hands enter soil like needles 
making the promise of a dress 
from cloth. In December she begins 
smelling lilacs, by February 
she sees the holes 
peppers burn through snow. I see her, 
she’s the last green thing I need. 
When finally she’s pushed inside 
by the rude hands of dusk, 
I set down my life for her skin, 
taught all day how to smell 
like the sun, and the hundred 
directions of her hair, and eyes 
that look through me to flowers 
that only open their mouths 
to speak with the moon.

Bob Hicok

oh wow I am really fond of how the survivor tag is a mix of SA, cancer and the reality show results. Seriously! I’ve been wandering through forums and things for people who’ve experienced SA (or abuse, or incest) and they’re not for me. But this tag! It’s got the perfect mix of people who’ve been thru stuff similar to mine, plus the completely different perspective of cancer patients, plus some much-needed levity from people who want to talk about how Amazon was better than Vanatu or whatever. Oh man. Whoooooof.

wolf, part five million

I was crying really quickly, had felt the tears waiting but thought i could do something about that. It was his voice, small and kind and wanting, wanting to help, asking “what do you want me to say,” and my body kind of split lengthwise, uncomfortably, like a walnut shell in a nutcracker, and I was crying, pushing my face between his shoulder and the bed, holding him, whiteknuckled, telle une naufrageuse.

"You’re safe," he said, and, "I love you," and in spite of myself I hated that those words would get used like this, like an ointment. We have only recently begun with that, for months I tiptoed shy as a deer around I love you, said it only when I felt the words fat as a grape in my mouth, needing to be said.

I was crying because two and half years ago I was assaulted and some old splinter had wedged up under my skin and insisted on being felt. This was not the first time. I walked around for two months acknowledging, but not speaking about it, and didn’t really have any emotions until I cried, suddenly, for two hours during a meeting. When another woman published a story similar to mine, and another, I cried quietly and violently, dried off, and walked out of my room.

"Can you give me a hug but not ask why or to talk about it?" I’d asked my roommate, and, bless his beating heart, he wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on my head. I think he said, "everything’s going to be OK" and I had to blink, furiously, to keep from starting again.

Another woman has written publicly about the space in which I was assaulted. Like the second one, I know the person she identified as her aggresser. Her story is different enough from mine—more complex, involves a relationship over several months—but I watch quietly from my corner of the internet as her reputation is held in both hands and torn down the middle. And I tell myself, this is what happens to girls who talk about it.

"Oh, isn’t this…a bike, riding a bike on a summer night. It’s the best, it’s just the best!" J was lit-up from her teeth-out, tipsy to each curl, eyelashing here and again at I. We pumped, pedaled, swung through the streets with my brakes squealing hard.

I crouched on the floor of the bar to take a long shot of C crooning with the jazz band, twirled back to snap J’s face rising over the bar like a full moon. Wine worked its way into the cuts on my lips.

We worked the U-locks open, twitched lights—“We need a gang name, like, Les Lucioles,” she said—and were back soaring over concrete. C and I tried to sing each other songs, forgot the words, laughed, embarrassed, ivres. At one point I just kept going, bombing light after light, every word I mispronounced pumping through my veins to my feet, the pedals, each inch of asphalt a chance to try again. Going home without saying goodbye a rare privilege, a taste like preserved lemons on a hot day.

This time, the whiff of yeast wasn’t there, no eyefree tell of my barrio. Cutting down Prefontaine, the lights way out, weird-out. Clusters of people at some doors, nervous chatter, glass breaking. No streetlights so I squinted at the street with that no-account moon barely pointing out the potholes. I glided through the intersection in slow motion, staring at the assembly of firetrucks cutting lights into the black. The air smelled hot and dead, the odour of things not meant to be burned.

Even home, it followed me. I woke twice to check the stove, that rancid taste of burning insulation catching in the back of my throat. It lingered, then was gone, like anything. 

This afternoon a military plane screeched so low overhead that my eyes rattled in their sockets, that my body was seized by a strange fear that did not quell. Wanting only to hide, to curl and cry like a child shaking under the bed. The frightened animal of my body insisting that this was not normal, that all could not ever be well. My mind a nursemaid, walking solidly down the hall, stooping to straighten the rug. If all can’t be well, at least the rug can be straight.