Because the world is feeling extra prickly, I'm on a mission to dry out dampened joy, to shield cortisol from blazing through veins, to illuminate broken down whispers and songs. Let's not forget to acknowledge what's incredible. To balance out turmoil with a heavy hug. The earth still hums and holds us despite our smothering taunt. I can smell it wafting hellos through my window this very minute.
Sandy - two thousand and six
Swimming around your perimeter, against a rocky shoreline.
Cutting onions in your kitchen in a stained white apron. The anticipation of breath on my neck.
Reading Neruda, I step over logs.
Dreams in a glorified cot, cardboard pillow, bats hover above.
Water slips over the edge of the rowboat, soaking my yellow dress.
Plucking voracious ticks from our hair and backs. It's the most we've touched, it's infuriating.
I look for you everywhere. In the lake, in the trees, in the bathrooms with your toilet brush.
Injecting an esoteric performance at a wholesome talent show made for families.
I say come here. And everything changes.
To remember
The look he gave me when I left the house. Pursed lips like an asshole, facetious smile. Then arms around me, a strangling embrace.
Her hairy legs inside mismatched wool socks, inside combat boots. The hurt I discover after dreaming she was there when she wasn’t.
The smell of dried saliva on a masticated number two pencil, shoved in front of my nose with a boogery boy hand.
You told me not to eat the onions. Then you probed my mouth with your tongue.
Her dead eyes after a forth session of shock-therapy treatment.
His fixation on an abandoned spiderweb hanging from the underside of a table.
On Christmas your dogs chased my cat up the walls. Claws bleeding and nubby. Tail shaking, covered in fearful shit.
Standing in the shower watching you comb your long, thinning hair. Conditioning with jojoba. JOJOBA! I ask for more.
Summertime in Fraser. A trailer park porch. The policeman handcuffs you. The sun makes you disappear for the last time. I love you honey bunny.
The stack of hats on the top shelf of your closet. Silk scarves tucked in jacket pockets. Drawings folded gently inside books. The soft smell of tobacco rests in the insoles of your shoes. A salud!
Pieces of grandpa