Letter

Dearest,
              I can hardly believe the stones life makes of us.
              We are marble statues laid early and shallow into the earth, parted by unwieldy souls no matter how close we may seem. Watched all the time, we think ourselves alone in the night, in this thankless, circular solitude.
              And what good would it do us to know? The worst of it would be to seem so far away at once as staying so close.
              We leave little but halting steps behind, stilted and pointed in every direction.
              Where did you carry your pain? I am determined to remember.
              If I could find it, would you let me hold it for a while?
              The bells of the hillsides here are your back as you sleep, sloped and even but for knots and the ebb and flow of your breath. And here, the old oak tree lends her hands to the memory of yours. They are just as soft in mine, laid together in the woods.
              We spend our days in the underbrush and each other, when you show me to the stars I am whole just from the wash of night and rain sweet on your barked skin. A still, white point in the forest, we are made of snow and nearly as fragile and wanting. Watch us wither even as the winter comes, knowing spring will leave us for dead and the wildflowers.
              From my nested resting place, I can only hope you return in some other shape.
              Perhaps a cloud run smooth by the river of wind across the evening sky.

I am a tangle of everything I’ve ever said.
Spirit-rising
Bound by years, years of grass and cloth.

Men touching men, touching god

White rustic branches, interwoven
----------
The lie about clothing is that it
covers us.

But it is only when we are naked
that we are covered, loved
protected.
----------
If you, bag my brain,
will I still suffer? Heartbreak,
loneliness,
Suffer?
----------
Cameron hugged her brother,
there in the East Tennessee wilderness.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt”.

The warblers burbled.
----------
Night. On the road to Mississippi
Pillows and a hangar at night.

G-d should I go,
to Mississippi?
to meet the Great
White Supremacy?

Entrails of a wounded
mind.

We’re only taking,
what we need.
----------
Synergistic
----------
Remote-controlled dancers,
catching robotic gumdrops
from the afternoon sun-God,
bound by wheels of prison-colors

Retching in the sunny wilderness,
“You go high,
I go low.”

Afternoon offerings to the Aten,
children of digital light

“We have seen
a great and Digital light;
the future is surrounded
by color, but not bound by it”

peachtree

peachtree, georgia is a lucid town. lucid and fleeting, filled with pastel people, and i can’t remember your face anymore.

peachtree is a place where old people get older. it is golf carts and wooden patios, it is reflections on a lake more beauty than body, it is you and i (and her) pretending we understand infinity. and all of this, all of this everything, in a town we do not belong in.

and the water in peachtree is so soft. it is the type of soft that claims you like an overbearing mother. it turns suburbia into a chlorine castle and makes our eyes sting red. the poolwater is just as warm as i am cold. when i jump in my body is covered in a familiar sort of newness, and i am an astronaut. it feels like we are in the mouth of a giant, like we are his wine and his delight, it feels like our youth is being chewed and chewed and swallowed and it is making us feel alive.

peachtree is early morning coffee with someone i think i know. it is a light purple sunset and the smell of rain behind an old movie theater, photogenic feelings. it is wasting time and mourning its loss, it is something i will never understand. because peachtree is purgatory for dreamers, because you and i could fall in love there (again and again and a-), and i couldn’t point it out on a map if tried.

i still remember the layout of that house. some nights i think my sleeping mind walks though it on its own. i know every dent and every decoration. i don’t want to. because you’re still there, somewhere, in this romanticized version of what we were.

and that’s the only place we’ll ever meet.

Poem 1


Pulling Outside and Inside

Heavy burden pulling inside and outside
holding on while stepping on crisp grass
making a new path for others to follow
hunters looking for easy prey
children searching for their homes
lovers sharing in nature's grace

This struggling day brings tight shoulders
walking on a trail of colored breadcrumbs
a loaf of memories crumbling in my arms
hands reaching for rancid connections
fingers grasping at straying fibers
palms holding onto abandoned self

An old scare crow mounted in cornfield
nibbling at the air gasping for breath
singing whispered songs as crows circle
eyes hurting from bright sunlight
head wanting to see lucid dreams
neck straining on the cracked pole

Coiling released snake of
choking out ancient stories silencing oral
suffocating inside with fright and fears
legs marching through the blades
feet crushing down on their skin
toes stroke on piled green masses.




Poem 2


Reaching Between Us

Reaching beyond realms
separated flesh and devoid emotions
abandoned in a field
found a place among
branches and trunks of strength
roots embrace nourished shelter
silence broken welcomed
gentle streams of breath
fears dissolved dripping weakness
comfortable flow of tears
dew making contact
blended bark of shelter
and comfort.




Poem 3

Wrap the Tiger

Open the mouth revealing teeth
jealous tongue wanting to scream
releasing moist words projected
from deep with the heart
passion lingers but wrapped
caged hunger left to rot
untouched but seeing
what feeds and fulfills
must let go feel real alive
air suffocates words
trying to find expression
arms and hands reach
outward and twirl along
streams of wind but still
this birds can't fly
awakens by mimic
flock awaiting the chill
to lift and seek warmth
pull away the layers
no more lies of what
is trapped inside
luring desire until weak
but the little moisture
isn't fulfillment
but tears.



Poem 4

Heavy man's load
trying to keep balance
delivered chaos to help
never seeing an end
grabbing at ends

Heavy Man's load
frustrated to find peace
dropped bags to arrange
never walking away again
grabbing at beginnings

Heavy Man's Load
overwhelmed with bags
falling loads past burdens
never regretting the release
grabbing at now.

Prelude
Have in mind the time
of day. Prepare
for weather-mishaps.

This is today's humanity.
Moments in active present tense.

reimagine relive
re re re re re re re propellers
re re re re re re re tells me
what it's all about.
re re re re re re re bags--
years--twists--goodness--

Trust yourself to capture
the moment in the moment. To
sharpen. Make abundantly
clear.


I.
Shoulder. Sharp inhale
trepidation.

---
Gather what you've
leaned into

Grab and squeeze
every second of your
life.

---
How much can you
hold on your back and
rise, pull, make it
uphill?

Battle battle battle.
Solitary emotive. Groan.

---
Tarp rings rings around me,
pockets of posies, brokenness.

II.
Traces: Embrace and
how you responded.

Turned: Hand opened
we carry our faces.
Relearn each other's
fingers. Jaws. Torsos.
Stretch together into the
fullest. Or common lost-
ness.

Careful: Hand over hand.
Groping over arm. Water.
Fall.

III.
This long black dress is
a veil. Lift and I am ____

---
And there. One who cannot
loosen so easily.

---
Poses. poses. Re positions.
Let the black robe
become a character.

Sit down. Pet it. Or
beat it on the ground. Every-
thing you've always
wanted to scream. Tell some-
one else about.

---
The cloth can cover you.
Prevent you.

Oh! But be a wonderful hat!
Then it's a mask.

---
Point. Light. Plane.
How we conform.
Navigate between states.
Follow Kadinsky.

---
Place your hand over
your heart. Wait
for the anthem.

Let the tremolo of violins
roadmap you.

IV.
We meet in these woods. I
hold you as if this might be
our last.

Pray. Supplicate these
green leaves. Your stubbly
beard. My need to bless.
have you wash me in lineage
and air.

Political days in this-
this-last second before
I hold you forever.

V.
Snare drums. Warning
shots. Bundle of--what is
that?

---
Metal wall and black
where windows should be.
Intermittent. Laid and layered
as Pavlov
or Papa
would have them be.

---
When will you learn you
cannot carry all those bags into
the house of yourself?

---
Pile. Grunt. Stumble.

Now the wall is tall into light.
That's what you fear? Oh, the
bright stranger. Beacon.

Warm your burdens. Release them.
Give thanks for. Be gentle with.

---
End the story with
an embrace. Twist and look.
Ahead. Ahead.

VI.
We are two among the bare
trees. Move as one. Hug.
Turn and don't let go.

---
Let me have your arms.
Be something familiar
in the fight.

---
Rest. Here is all.

---
Let them find us
forever willing, pliable.

When they discover
what we created,
let them call it
"Enrapture."

---
Deeeeeeeep breath. Rustle.

VII.

Starts with cello.

Think differently about how
you score.

---
Major condensing. You
have to cut time
in half.

---
Enter multi-colored circles.
Perfectly measured
six feet between rings.
Best seen from above.

---
All the color in your clothes
doesn't keep you from
experience. The hula-hoop
you cannot leave. The space
where only you backbend.
Tug to no purpose. From which
you lean back to see
the sky.

---
Of course,
you get to choreograph it all yourself.

Where will your legs go? Arms?
Don't neglect the tremble of it all.
Hair flying to rhythm of breeze,
source unknown.

---
Hallah hallah hallah be
the most of it.

---
Open the stop. Somehow
be harmony, self-
accompanied.

Ee oh-oh-oh
Ee oh-oh-oh

---
Layers-layers-layers of
the work circling. Figuring
itself out.


---
Hyper-construct. Consider
what happens with
every hour of the day. End
with the most
beautiful major chord
known. Your voice pure
though aching.

---
Call the entire surface
"Prescience."


Postlude/additional thoughts
Let the form be
contact tracing. From
delicacy to explosion.

---
Research. Map the scenes.
Range from natural to
constructed landscapes.

---
Record frogs. Woodpeckers.
Note the sound of birds
rising.

---
Co-generative, emotive
embodiment. Global intensity.

Ask for amplifications of that.

“This Holding”

I created an altar
out of my burdens
and then
prayed to them
I no longer know
who I am

a small sphere
history on my back

Intimacy is a love
language, a pulling in
though your skin is
wet I’m not sure what
to do with what I shed
the toys I tossed
as a child when movement
cost nothing, not even
a reputation

for touch, a body
entwined with
experience in
stead

This is the first time I'm "attending" an event since the quarantine.

This is also the first time I'm attending an evening performance with my kids, a two-year-old and a newborn.

I'm in my pajama shirt and underwear (because my pants had to be thrown in the dryer after the two-year-old splashed a gallon of bath water on it, just minutes before I was supposed to sit in front of said performance).

My husband is shushing and bouncing the newborn behind us. The two-year-old is crawling all over me, using my body like the playgrounds he hasn't been able to use in months. I am his slide. His monkey bars. His swing.

The show starts and it's a familiar sight, a woman alone in an open park. The weather is sunny and nice, the way it's been most days for us. I almost think the park is the same one we go to, almost every other day. There's green, there are trees ("Trees!" The two-year-old says), there are birds ("Tweet tweet!" The two-year-old says). She walks and gets caught in a long snake-like rope made of cushions ("Oh no," the two-year-old says). Out of the blue, my son blurts out: "Train!" Even though there's no train in the footage.

Now I'm breastfeeding the newborn and I'm watching the video which is being streamed live - and I know there are others watching at the same time and that it's a one-way relationship: the performers cannot see me, I am watching them, and in fact it's a pre-recorded performance. But I can't help but feel exposed, sitting cross-legged in our living room with the whole family, half-naked, one breast out, watching dancers breathe and hug and touch, watching them shredding their own clothes off one by one - and now it feels like we're watching each other do the same thing. The two-year-old starts to dance. His body is still growing, and it's like watching a cartoon, the way he moves from his hips, like a mechanical toy. The dancers on the screen are flexible, smooth, they understand their own bodies better than most of us understand our own. The two-year-old has only recently discovered that he has a nose, a mouth, a head, ten toes, two knees, and elbows which he calls "arm knees."

The newborn is back in my husband's arms and the two-year-old is laying flat on my back while I'm contorted in what looks like a yoga pose, legs crossed, head bent down to my toes. It's been a month since I gave birth to the newborn and I'm pleasantly surprised at my own flexibility. Flexibility is a given to all of these dancers, it's a requirement. To me it is forced by the strength of the two-year-old, surprisingly strong for his small body. Twenty-six pounds but already with enough strength to pin me down like a wrestler. I used to sit normally. I used to attend events like these wearing vintage designer dresses passed down from my mother. I used to visit my mother.

All of this probably makes it seem like our house is chaotic (which it can be) and that I have no control over my own body (a phenomenon that peaks in the early mornings right after everyone wakes up and during evenings right before the two-year-old goes to sleep). I almost wish to keep all of this secret, to preserve the image of myself as someone in control, someone who might be childless, someone who is an independent artist who spends her free evenings attending interesting art events. A friend likes to describe me as "elegant." But she hasn't seen me in my current state, a body that doesn't look like anything but a contortion of body parts and hair tangled up with the body of a two-year-old. But the trippy thing is, she could very well be watching this same thing in her home.

(I wonder, quietly, it anyone watching has dressed up for this. If anyone has lipstick on. I've stopped wearing lipstick ever since wearing masks outside. It makes it too much of a hassle to wash the lipstick off the mask afterwards. I miss my lipstick. I miss so much and yet I will probably be one of those people who will continue to wear masks and continue to social distance a lot longer than what is socially accepted as necessary.)

I'm supposed to be responding to the performance. I try to think of ways I would have responded before… all of this. I think about bodies. (I'm quietly wondering if the dancers who touch each other are part of their quarantine bubble.) (I could probably look this up or listen to the q&a but I also now have to put the two-year-old to sleep, with our usual routine of brushing his teeth and reading books.)

I think now about routines. How nice it would be if we could all move according to a choreography.

More Weight 

I will carry you
When you can't will to wield your arms any longer
I will lift you 
And you will be safe in my arms
Far from harms way 
If you touch me
It may be a dangerous game but safety
Rests in strange places 
They are heavy. I carry them like bad memories 
There are so many but I keep holding 
Because there's too much space without their weight surrounding 
Compared to Six feet of empty air 
A body doesn't even compare 
To the crushing weight of distance

I will carry you
When you can't will to wield your arms any longer

When the walls are high enough I beg you not to look down the view from half way up and the view from half way down are drastic and different 
And gravity
Is a weight on us all 
But the fear
Not the 
Weight
Is what comes before the fall 
In the gallows I will carry you 
Through the burn and muscle ache
Wait for the sun to burn the horizon of your eyes, and even if it never does I beg that you stay on the Skies, because everything down here is heavy 
I pray you never know the weight of your own body

I will carry you
When you can't will to wield your arms any longer but I pray that Maybe just maybe one day, we will hold each other
We will hold each other. 

This Holding

I

Striding uphill at dusk
The birds don’t quit and
I
keep going
keep moving

It is late spring
but we are tired.
We kneel
we think

what burdens us?

Take it.
Grasp it.
Take it all and
shoulder it.

Sand and color and air and
sound

Until you can’t, and you rest
and your boots are moist
with sweat

and you itch
from the grass

so bad, the
burden feels soft

so many colors
such a long path
a lineage

we are all wound.
We wind

We twist
together
in the cooling air

until we cannot separate

We are damp
caught
alone
together
afield, far.


II

Hold me.
Hold on.
Touch me
My head, my hair

Breathe

our necks like puzzle pieces

Birds so oblivious to us

I feel you.
I grasp you.
You take me. You send me.


III

Take off.
Like they used to, here.
Take FUCKING OFF.
It’s the end of a road.
It’s an old place made new.
We’re all so fucking white.
We’re all so fucking confused.

What is that?
Who is that?

Get off me.
Get offa me.

I can’t breathe.

I wish I couldn’t breathe.
Is this what it is like.

We are ready. Take us.
Take off.


IV

Bodies mesh. That’s what
they are meant to do.

Birds call. That’s what they
are meant to do.

We hold each other up, but
we were not touched.

Breathe with me
Just now.


V

Cornelia, did you know?
Can you feel us?

It is dusk,
and we beckon
our weight is many.

This is a kind of heavy.
The frogs are oblivious.
The stars blink.

I can’t
take
anymore.
I’m trying,
I’m trying.

You’re all too bright.
Too loud.
I’ll keep trying. I stagger. Sorry.

The left behind, they
know I tried.


VI

We are hook and crook
pen and pal.
Beast and burden.
To and fro.
Mesh and meat.
Friend and foe.

Break me.
Break it yourself.
You’re all I have.


VII

We color in the empty spaces
Assign our places
Aardvark length. Don’t touch.

The clouds don’t care,
come on in,
get close.

I can’t get out
and neither can you
meet me there
and we’ll shout about it
Twist and
genuflect
on the bare level
closest to god.

They’ll see us as candy
as a diagram for
living.

And when the light goes,
we’ll still move.
This is the answer.

Aunt Linda’s

New Hampshire home smells like pine
needles drying on bedrock.

When it rains on our third morning, the earth
erupts with salamanders.

In awe, we step carefully over slick rocks—
three children realizing how fragile

the tiny lives scurrying across our path,
over our shoes, in the bowls of our palms.

We can see them breathing as our fingers
grow sore from the strain

of being gentle.






I Once Told My Cub Scout Leader

You smell like my dad

It was not an insult or cry
for attention

Not a request for surrogate
or approval

Just a shock after years of only
me and Mom

The arrival of mild sweat and grass
like discovering my house

rebuilt in another country






Gifts

When the recruiters call on your 18th birthday,
they have gifts.

Four calls. Cake half-finished on the plate.
Each branch

calling out the same invitation—We have
a place

for you, they say. We have a future. The gift of
job security.

You are a man now, they say, and there will
always be

a place for you, as long as there’s a need
for violence.