Despite your pleading, she never seemed to know your fear, your suffering. Worse: recognizing that she did know and didn’t care. Given her keenness, not to mention your insistence, how painfully likely. In the most compassionate reflection you know that she knew, didn’t comprehend, was frustrated. Careless remains the outcome, these years. That her response bulldozed your tender heart is less extravagant a description than she might deride: leftover the shattered, dusty remains of fear ignored, ground into the loamy foundation of your once-shared desperate, loving affection. Dead. Fertile compost for the next beloved misunderstanding.
what is going to happen when my google or apple cloud finally runs out of space? do all my books and pics disperse onto the internet like so many raindrops? or will it be more of a disaster
like Lisa poking Bart’s new “MOTH” tattoo I feel the annoyance of my small hut of a home as next-door neighbor to a big, empty, two bedroom—you guessed it: Airbnb. owned by the landlords I pay. my unfortunate lil anarchist heart (tattoo).
Deets goes out in her winter jacket now. I can’t stop giggling when she wanders around in it. the clothes are wearing the kitten.
instead of a “to do” list I pretend I’m at an inclusive resort and this is the menu. I have choices, and if I’m starved I can get multiple from each course. my body demands three square meals. today I’m starting off with an amuse-bouche of exercise followed by a mindfulness appetizer. for my mains I will be tackling designing the curriculum I plan to teach, and homework for the classes I attend. if I have room for dessert I will review my bank accounts and recurring payments. there will be leftovers; I never waste food.
when an emergency vehicle goes down this quiet country road with the lights on and the siren seemingly at low volume, the first thing I want to say is a prayer of sorts for everyone involved. then I wonder if animals stay away because that vehicle was going at quite a clip and there are animals running around all the time. are the lights and siren enough or do they have a cattle thingy. the word “everyone”, to me, encompasses. I say my sort of prayer again.
remake of The Fast and The Furious original with queer, trans, female characters in the main male roles. everything else should be an exact replica with the sole exception being pronouns in the dialogue. only the actors change.
after 9PM Deets discovers a dead mouse in the humane (ha) trap. the trap was in a place that shouldn’t have gotten a mouse—of a height, exposed, no bait of any kind, dead ends in every direction because it’s a ledge that drops off to the patio on three sides—so I don’t expect my kitten has found anything but turds when I open it up. after watching Deets discover and get absolutely thrilled to have her paws on a little body, I wondered about how long it might have been there. this poor wee furball lost it’s life on a ledge in a metal container under continuous shade during winter temperatures the high of which is continuously below the maximum my refrigerator can reach. so the mouse was refrigerated. I then realized Deets would find a small animal immediately, for all that. now she was just enamored with throwing her new toy around only to bat or bite it right up into the air again. because love, I would have to wait as Deets played. hopping and writhing in the air, swatting and grabbing, mouthing and tossing. play hard, waste not. Deets wore herself out in about fifteen minutes before eating up the whole cat-sized meal. my kitten cruised back into our home with a satisfied mrrrow and no signs of mouse anywhere outside the trap, which still contains turds.
in the receding of those delights shared lovingly, cared for, treasured. the glory of sunset at the end of a day perfectly spent. as this joy becomes a history you could easily settle into sleep. roll your back that quakes with quiet sobbing toward these shared beauties, their accompanying hope. your recurrent struggle to keep it all in sight, alive, possible; how often you have rested your very existence on potential. have you learned anything? perhaps not how, but what to keep—the parts of the missing that must stay conscious. the hope that kills you; the practices that keep you alive. the reminiscences and desires; these delights need tending, now. as the moments become memories among the tears of gratitude and departure, as sleep beckons cold comfort, you seek a how for staying wakeful.
when you got too tired to be chameleon and your colors wouldn’t turn. you can’t bend in the ways you did when you were young. this year’s in like a lion; they’re out hunting lambs. he played a joke song when the app asked, “join a jam?” if you’re looking for flowers you’ll have to be patient. this closeness awakening powers long latent. she’s speckled with chowder; his jacket filmed in dry mud. the laughter’s incessant, just a loud mess of love.
the closer you get to truth the further you get from luck. he coulda been a cowboy if he ain’t cared so damn much. when I’m on my own I’m perfect. when I love you, I’m a mess. uncertainty is everywhere, everyone doing their best. the bad habits are all mutual, no doubt the care as well. things wouldn’t need to be so spiritual if we weren’t so often facing hell. their repertoire impresses and they play with their whole hearts. if you think that joke’s regressive wait til you hear about my farts.
this was the year we got it all right. well, they all did really, you just showed up. some folks are reaching and growing; some stay relying on luck. I forgave you, a while back, and I meant it. I’m jealous of the few you call friends. whatever credit I carried I spent it; I’m trying to save up again. if I’ve wronged you I’m sorry please know it. let’s air it if that will do good. we’re learning new perspectives quite often, and probably everyone should.
it’s all I can do not to find a bone to pick. I floss sometimes more than once a day. there’s something stuck in my craw. my teeth ache, my jaw’s tight. chewing the cud only injures my maw.
I held off on opening birthday presents for over a month. such a lovely stack of faraway appreciation, piled and postponed as the excitement of the gifts I gave myself slowly faded. boxes standing by as beloved company departed, friends proved their points, winter waited its turn. inevitable, the cold crept in and the packages, patient as love, appealed to my need for warmth. a crystal pendant ready to make rainbows. a comfortable cutlery set of which I couldn’t have dreamed. a tracker for the adventurous kitten. books. each now replacing hugs, caring faces, the singing and dancing of togetherness. only I have created this lonely life; romance it well, I shall, and do! the alchemy of interpretation: all gifts are gifts.
petrichor so dry it smacks of mineral residue. not a sprinkling twinkling of rainfall on grass. plopping smacks of fat wet against dry earth and stone. tiny paw prints to break my heart. a hush of distance in the downpour: were it daytime one might see to where the clouds are yet to break, or done broken. the taste of salt, origins of metal. a repeated, plaintive “merrrlow” asks why we’re not walking in the wet. the desert moistened packs dense and heavy, piles on soles like platforms. instead we play inside, and she’s perfectly kitten rough romping, leaping and rolling. Deets lately playfully pursues this toy she’s always had: a gift from Grandy on the day of adoption. a toy that initially terrified baby Deetsy, in fact, a problem long since conquered. bigger, still kitten makes jokes these days, and friends. her feline visitor appears irregularly, landing not farther than a yard away to a mutual, quiet, friendly curiosity only cats can explain. I don’t know the sex of the other, which means until Deets is spayed I appreciate them keeping distance. she gives her little quizzical trills, not dissimilar to when she asks why we can’t play outside, and the other cat responds by silent approach, closing the small gap so they might sniff at each other. Lindsay told me she read that cats don’t meow in the wild, having many other, more efficient ways of communicating. house cats developed this talent specifically for their idiot human companions. what romance! tomorrow Deets will insist on her walk in the sticky desert. she will spend the evening afterwards tracking mud around our casita, then gnawing at her cakey paws, leaving dust on everything. I won’t mind one bit.
when we came home from Alaska the nighttime was cold and quiet. my home too was quiet. after she left, the cat meowed more. she left the blankets folded on her bed, the one that had been mine for years in a Prius, taking up a third of the floor space where it stayed for many more days. a week in Alaska like a foreign country: blessed the landscape, thorough the surreality. tears were shed for the glory of a pure, exquisite earth. tears were shed of laughter. each day and night stretched long, every one a new blur of beauty, of sharing. how rampant my remembrance, in the soft nighttime silence of afterward.
leave me where I can watch my kitten as she shoves her paw between the rocks of a hastily built wall, shoulder deep and searching. where the hummingbirds above my head buzz and twirl and chitter in a particular ballet, squawking tiny squawks at each other flit zipping at the feeder I fill weekly. where the sun is bursting over the eastern mountains warm with a new day and not yet enough to fight the persistent chill of morning. leave me where I can rest and breathe and witness the glory of small creatures. where the wary wren bounces across the ground, then flies if the kitten comes within five yards. where the red tailed hawk’s cry comes to my ears over the wide plain of high desert, grasses full of food. let me stay where the sky spreads so wide I can reach these arms to find the horizon lower still than my wingspan. where the milky way spreads from one fingertip to the other even as the moon glows in the dome of shared sky. leave me here, and I will never feel abandoned
I’ve dwelt in the dark of self-pity. nests of entitlement woven with blissful blaming. swaddled in judgment allowing no criticisms, I’ve hidden. while outside life calls relentless, birds in spring cacophonous: “we are renewed and so shall you be, hark and hither and make haste!” an incessant urging, a promise. this sordid refuge no longer serves me solace. reaching out unsteadily heeding, dragging myself into the fray, wondering shakily, approaching revival. the world requires conscious, necessary, heart-rending entanglements. much is asked: there is much to gain. the time of hiding is ended.
can I explore you? definitely with my hands and maybe with my mouth. if that’s cool with you. I want to pet your fur and prod your muscles. will you let me nibble on your soft spots? I anticipate electricity: an accidental tickle startling two bodies with a shared shiver. our physical distance so rigid until now suddenly unbearably close—in the seeking of calm, I’d like to explore you. maybe with my hands and definitely with my mouth. if that’s cool with you
the way your tone changes when the dogs don’t listen. measuring care by offered spa treatments. it isn’t about a person but a safety. not a moment but an honesty. when we dance at graduation. tense moments, false accusations. righteousness, lately worth wariness. the work, always worth everything.
the crickets have returned with arrhythmic, staccato bleating into the warm evening air like a panic. so warm I’ve turned off the heat in my home. all wakings these mornings full of birdsong. this classroom a traffic of twittering teens, surrounded by cheeps chirping in trees. bright blooms in the desert cry joyous blush and regal hues. raucous little celebrations scattered among the greys and khaki rock. spring might as well be screaming: come play
she picks me up from work to get boba tea where we discuss all the feelings in utter safety and when she drops me off again we say “I love you.” I am astounded once again by the succor of the quotidian: any every thing shared is precious, priceless. as our lonely society beckons without warmth, disappoints without fail. as the brutality threatens to callous all hands. let us hold each other’s. let us drink tea
I just bumped my scraped-up shin on the edge of the bed, tumbling in like “ouch” only to land on my truly banged-up elbow from whence with a “fuck!” I rolled onto my bruised shoulder like “you’ve gotta be kidding oww!” now sitting back up I lean my hand onto my ankle only to gasp at a new tenderness. what a sport.
spring is the return of birds that went away from the dark, chirping welcome. it is the snow my aunt calls “lamb’s manure” for the overcast of a March that wants the golden lion’s glow; this month arrived lame, will go out fierce. spring is upheaval after complacency, green shoots poking through the wet, brave as revolutionaries. bold buds unbound of doldrums, dauntless. spring is color coming back, fresh landscape an invitation. each new day asking, asking: how shall you grow now, what beauty each brings, and from this dark winter, where we will build anew
“aren’t you scared?” they asked and asked when I got in the car. I couldn’t wait any longer for a partner. I had to do a thing that yeah, I hadn’t wanted to do alone. I needed to finally explore my ridiculous home country. most of the things about which folks worry are crimes of opportunity. “so don’t look like one,” said my sibling, gifting me a stiffly new, empty leather knife holster. what would I do with the big hunting blade that fit into it anyway? I had several smaller knives for tools. another friend gifted me an actual dagger. that one I kept sharp, at the head of my bed near the bear spray and taser, both also gifts; the holster stayed at my waist. sure I was scared, and I was ready. being afraid is no good reason not to do a thing.
ironically or not, settling down has been much, much scarier. there is a chosen, romantic alone on the road. then there is the small town existence, where no one is new and everyone has families. it’s beautiful being invited into peoples’ homes, getting to casually hang out with babies and kids. I’m at the age where most of my peers are settled in, cozy and content in their rhythms. as the seasons change so do the sports; everyone has their crew for each adventure. there are permutations of friend groups, myriad overlaps throughout the year. this too is beautiful to me, though I stay observing. for now.
last week my coworker loaned me one of our school’s mountain bikes. two days later I dragged myself to the desert to ride in Sand Canyon, alone. much like when I moved into the car, I prepared by carrying tools I’d been given: water bladder, backpack, mini first aid kit (complete with flint), and knife. I did some research and chose a short path. it was terrifying. riding alone, encountering hikers, that’s enough. over rocks, roots, sand. slickrock is fucking fun, and then I lose the cairns and have to ride extra ups and downs. panting. Ute Mountain was in full view almost the entire time, along with eons of colored sandstones in mesas, cuestas, towers. and some springtime greens. if I passed any ruins I missed them entirely. I covered four adrenaline-fueled and somehow slow miles, in an hour. I was wrecked. And smiling as I tucked the bike into my car, where my bed once lay.
It’s not an adventure if you’re not a little scared.. and maybe a lot uncomfortable.
if you have been domesticated, go outside to cleanse the claustrophobia. breathe in a history of your wild life alone. befriending an animal is not about approach. remember when you bowed to the wary respect of deer who didn’t bound away. recollect that they remained as you now do: observable and unadorned, quiet and patient. speak only when necessary, then in a whisper to rival wind through tall grass, your words a rustle. recall the peace of your outdoor home, of walking softly across the carpets of earth, the sticky pine and shaggy greens, rocks smooth, and jagged. the caterpillars that fall from trees to whom you offered fruit, their tiny orifices greedy at the sharing of sugar. spiders taking to your bed in cold comfort, their silk stopping mosquitoes. indoors your perspective changes yet the rules remain. remember the hard-won lessons of your earthly freedom: bow. but do not show your belly. when your yearning is heavy, the innocence of earth cradles you. here is your lesson again. look up in greeting toward the canopy that comforts, keep her all in mind: leaves, needles, clouds, stars, squint-inducing blues, heavy greys, raging lightning. there is no ceiling, like there is no spoon: classic, rebellious, true. the “real” world in which you’ve taken to domestication is a poor substitute for the deep honesty of which you’ve been taught, time and again. claustrophobia will come, and you will go outside to breathe in recollection. you will know again, as the earth insists: you’ve never really been alone at all.
they call to tell you she has died and well, you and she had hardly spoken over the decade you’d known each other, but admired each other with a fondness born of the circle in which you both had swirled, mingling as lost young things before growing into the strong adults you had become, though now she is no more and all you can say to your beloved friend who has called to make sure you didn’t find out elsewise, is “we were lucky to have her while we did” because this was a thing she had tried and tried again, in a manner of speaking, and now had perfected, with the end of her existence, this intellectual anxious beautiful being who came into our lives so long ago immediately causing jealousy until one spoke with her and realized that maybe among us all she was the most genuine in those days, from whom we then learned and grew together and grew and birthed new plans amongst ourselves, new lives and bodies and willful, with scars on display not proudly but with honesty we grew and Bex was a catalyst, will always be. will always be missed.
I’m walking around this art museum dedicated to nuestra gente wondering what it means. To claim a culture as one’s own. To belong. These are not the same thing, are they? No se, pero I do know that when the museum employees talk to me I hear the coquí sing, and it’s all I can do not to beg them por favor continúa. Tiene la sangre, me dicen, y lo creo. Their Spanish lilt of bacalao and salt. They might as well be singing, “sana sana, nena” porque all I can smell is mi abuelita: garlic and distinctly latina perfume. All I can do is wiggle my hips a la bomba. All I can do is leando: de las bregas, los revolucionarios… y que fuerte son nuestra gente. I looked in the gift shop for baby clothes. Or anything que dice “Wepa” porque yo necesito más wepa these days. Necesito más de la raza. De mi gente. I sit in the gallery surrounded, soaking it in, and wonder. About belonging. Un empleado cantando in another gallery to light my heart. His bouyant lilt wafting through the rooms to remind me of el amor de vida that is solamente de la isla verde. Y como mi corazón lo necesita.
sweet plums spilling out a forgotten tree. they’re happy to pass even if it’s a D. as I age I’m realizing there’s no finish line. as I age I wonder about time. apples go thwump in the quiet of night. from society’s corners they’re itchin’ to fight. no matter where it’s planted you’ll reap what you sow. no matter where you find yourself you can grow.
We were hiking back to camp when it happened. I only wanted to keep going but he bade me sit down to talk it out. I had wanted to be afraid and then I wanted to cope aloud and he made me stop walking to do that. This wasn’t about our sport, this was personal to me. This was a yet different fear beyond what I’d already faced alongside him. Because we had though, I reluctantly sat down. I couldn’t look at him at first, or think, so great was the mess in my head. He waited. By and by, I talked. Around all of it. I said everything I felt like saying. I looked at the valleys close and distant, the further mountains, the wide blue sky. As I reacquainted myself with the desert calm, a shadow startled me not ten feet to my right. The raven who’d cast it swooped down in front of us, lilting on the breeze. I nearly cried then. “That’s for you,” he said, and the raven played on. With rarely a wingbeat, a wide black bird casually careening on draughts of dry, warm wind just beyond our reach from the canyon rim. The raven stayed close quite a while. Let this die now, she said to me. I left it soaring over those many valleys off toward the far mountains under our wide blue sky.
you’re up against a wall of rock on four toes and several fingertips, further from the ground than you’d care to notice, relieved to take a breath as you steady for the next reach. looking for holds is like looking for seashells: most that look good are incomplete, not quite enough. natural formations. you squander energy, myriad muscles tensed, exploring one hand at a time. later your buddies will say you think too much. now, right now, you have to breathe again. sometimes a little spring is necessary. a hop from three points so that your fourth can make a distance. up a natural wall. this isn’t the fear you had expected. there was a climber who told you that her first several descents had her vomiting as she reached the ground again. that isn’t what you’re going for, but it might not matter. breathe. your most ancient knowledge is telling your body of danger. that is not this moment, no matter the distance between you and an idea of safety. the problem is in right front of you. you’re breathing. you’ve got this. now. you’re here of only your own strength. it’s not too far. reach.
No more deep gulping yawns: autumn air has a bite. That moon’s called a Harvest cuz it works through the night. Going slow is the fastest way to lose balance. You’ve gotta move quick, quit wasting your talents. They notice and wonder and participate. They slump in all high, they’re showing up late. He used the n-word again and didn’t like what came next. We’re not gonna win but we’re giving our best. It’s one old flame that soothes and another that burns. You’re choosing to lose cuz you just want a turn. At sunrise each morning you’ll try, try again. If you’re running it’s into the arms of a friend.
All I need is the whole thing, all of the time I can make. Not forever but for now—I swear, my soul to take. They’ll whisper the secret and I’ll never tell. How did you do that all by yourself. I’m going to use it all none to waste. It’s not lost but feels gone, nothing taking that place. He reached into the tree and several plums fell. They aren’t getting better but they’re getting well.
Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment 