The landscape: winter reeds that hold their shape. Some half-remembered fact about the ocean floor. How it’s young, constantly turning itself over. A fact about albatrosses. How they don’t senesce and will go on possibly forever as they are until they run up against sickness or injury. Abigail brings a tincture for my bad skin: burdock, dandelion, goldenseal, what am I so afraid of, I think the same thoughts recurrently for years and do nothing about them. Just list what’s wrong with what I am, then what would be wrong with what I might become. In speech therapy I blow bubbles into a cup. By the end of each session my voice has deepened into a dark well lined with moss, full of cloudless water. It doesn’t last. In regular therapy I talk around myself and uncover nothing. I guess I will become hairier? I guess I will wait more.
Abigail and I prance on the ellipticals.
She wears floral print and jewelry to the gym
and we are already the weirdest
hairiest not-man people here.
Growing up I thought the Brooklyn Bridge was whichever of the two you were taking towards Brooklyn. Sometimes Julieta lays her hand flat on my chest and I can’t hide anything and it overwhelms me. Which one is the bridge towards me, any or all of them? It is fine enough being like I am of course nothing will be perfect but where to be satisfied. Like how I love lintbrushing myself in public. I can be neatened absolutely anywhere in a small victory of order. But my cat has a perfect white fluffy belly and almost all of my clothes are black, so order is impossible. All that would mean is not having to spend any more time cleaning myself up.
The winter light doesn’t warm
just harshens. Stark, ungentle.
I guess I wish the world around me
were just really, really different than it is.