Where I come from there are no
There is the ground and the sky
our feet and our hands.
She’s calmer now. The winter Sun is setting.
The edges of her voice have dulled
her eyes are still swift, snowy blue
blossomed into summer skies.
She is august now. Slow,
heavy as the air. Mellow,
the Moon easing in her hammock.
It was the crispness of the sweater that made me stop. Folded firmly, it was starched with the wind and the sun of the country it was dried in. Australia. I pushed it up to my face and breathed in deeply. Just the stale scent of the plane remained, not the detergent she used to wash it. But it was enough, it was enough. I placed it over my face and let my head drop back as the memories of the trip washed up through my senses.
Inhale. Long flights and airport reunions. Exhale. Her bedroom in that little apartment, his dirty dungarees and white ponytail past the door. The curtain-sifted light in her room and the darkness sitting, brooding in the corners. Inhale. The wind, the constant wind around the house, through the windows, playing tag with the screen door. Exhale. Arguments. Speed-walking through pale, yellow brick streets under a muggy grey sky. And quiet conversations in the dusk; thoughts waiting on pillows.
She reached across and stuck the needle in
didn’t feel around for the vein
if it hurt.
The plunger went down, Continue reading
From Melissa McEwan at Shakesville, a powerful critique of how popular media, as a vehicle of patriarchal systems, negatively affects men:
“Men who want to be in a stable and happy relationship with a specific person whom they adore are disappeared by the presumption that romance is the purview of women, and women want to be rescued, or fix a terrible guy, so let us make eighty-seven biebillion romantic comedies with the conceit that love begins with stalking, or the tragedy of incompleteness, or a jerk who needs to be tamed, none of which have wide appeal among men (or women) who want to see people who look something like their emotional selves projected back at them, so then let us conclude that men hate romance.
Men are dogs, who don’t want to settle down. Or: Men are weirdos, who want to control women.
When it’s a cold wind of doubt that follows
me, twisting up
my gut, twirling
all the air out
Or a tangled fairytale of yellow eyes and nightmares, Continue reading