slinklove, you pile your hands upwards towards my skin – a bottle-nosed dolphin and something mammalian and curved – like the willow of a spine, the petercottontail of a clavicle. bones, rapturous, rattling against one another – flesh: hollow, formed, willing, perpetual. windowpane of your eyes/ they keep approaching, following, leveling. is it your shape or your circumstance i find myself in? is it this bed or this hurricane i keep myself bonded to? is it proximity? this thing – desire – is it close to me? or closeness to the sea (which heralds me back, and in heralding, bonds me – keeps me never approaching anything other than the brine of the sea)
is it intimacy, or the sea calling me back? is it ever approaching? your skin/the nape of your circumstance/my hunger/lust, or something language approaches; like teeth
is it skin; a shell; a sea/
or the shore, lapping back?
i felt thirst for life come over me like a violence – supple, surrendering. drink through me from my fingertips to my roots. root me in a resonance round and repeating. i felt hunger for lust thundering through me like a rapture – spring had bounded through branches into buds. spring had curled into seeds and knocked twice. life had flung out like a drummer – noting, present, pearlescent. i felt dirtsmell and humus grumble sinking out of the snowmelt. i felt, i felt, i hurled my heart into a ball and let me blood burn white again – spring is here, the daffodil said. spring is here, the crocus called. spring is following you down the road – hungering, hungering, here comes the feast.
circumstantial circumstance and the circus tent over your head big enough to keep the light out. keep the light out, keep the light bright.
tree-breath wanderer branch – you keep growing in the winter dew, you keep splaying – sun baked and revelrous. the world keeps spinning round, the winter keeps winding down. come little spring, come. winter bones, winter-melt, come wash yourself away.
she said be a feminist, that’s what she told me to do. i told her my femininity was a pair of old crows tied to my appendages/i told her my mouth would flood rivers with fantasy/ i told her princessmermaid ariel was strapped to my head in a series of painfully acquired hair-extensions and i told her i was already woman-enough to know my womanhood. i wrapped this hood (little red’s or robin’s, or something on the spectrum between femininity and what you want me to be) around my face – i wrapped it (head covers, hijabs, nun-ification and all the other references aside) – i wrapped it close. i felt this rapture, the wrapping-paper still paper-mached to my mother’s fingertips. i felt all the paper, the plastic, the riptide lipstick lacquered onto my lungs (by now, I’m sure, like tar from cigarettes – doesn’t makeup stick to ribcages too?)
i made up my mind to matter. i willed my matter to mistake myself for a woman. i willed my womanhood to hold close to my own hood (childhood being at least one reason why). i went, hooded and clutching, hansel and greteling and groveling and ingratiating my way all the way to that hut in the woods (goldilocks was there, but baba yaga too). i told baba yaga of the words that keep wrapping around my head like a hood (is it a scarf, or a rapture). she told me courage was a monument; i was a firebird; love was a causation; the divine feminine was a lake. i told her i had lost the ability to interpret fairy tales (childhood being at least one reason why), (and that furthermore, they were encouraging me not to). she said to be a woman, that’s what she told me to do. i told her my femininity was a pair of old crows tied to my appendages.
here was a word I once knew how to own, and here was a body I once knew how to inhabit.
here was a season I once flooded – here is a season I’ve never met. here is a month drenched in climate confidence (change and circumstance, pomp and confusion). here is my child, here is my breath. here is my constantly churning yearning for the knowledge that I am brave enough to articulate what tiny words I know (together, they are a spell/apart, they are a whimsy; a whimper; a wish). here is Meinong’s jungle, here is a hacksaw. here is Aquinas’s’ theory of natural law, here is nature, tapping at my window, asking to come in. here is the new season, tapping on my tongue – asking to come in. asking me to come out, come out – see the splendid seeds brandishing their stalks and stems. come out, come out – pull your skin towards the sun once more. come out, come out, the clocks will tumble too – we’ll all lift our faces towards the sun/tilting/tilting/we’ll all till the land, kill the clock, shake the ice out of our senses. here is the season – come out, come out/the wind is waiting to warp you.
a surefire way to know nothing at all is to fight about everything you see.
someday you’ll open the door, after a winter-ball of months rolled up under the carpet comes yardballing out across the floor – you’ll open the door; you’ll see a field of purple crocuses dancing on the hill. you’ll see spring rooting through the soil – pushing, baby-lunged and pregnant, waiting to burst. the prenatal core of the earth placenta-flooded and filled with grass waiting to turn green. you’ll see, you’ll see; one day you’ll open the door and spring will be staring back like an anchor. like a river. like something you can wade in to/float along, swim down, dive deep, dig wild. and wilder. come back, old wild one.
someday you’ll open the door; you’ll see a field of purple crocuses dancing on the hill.
the only difference
is whose voice
is tapping out
and how you
it on the page
(comma, the other voice, or yours)
word bliss/am i in love with the sound or in love with the reflection of form on a blank space?
i am a small series of hyphens and fuck it.
something gurgles and i gurgle back.
something tips and i tip under.
the world is hurricane and thunder and how come you don’t see how interconnected it is? how come you all don’t see it?