Friday January 27, 2017 at Bump n Grind on Granville
You opened up your belly with a whale bone and you filled yourself with rocks.
You went into the river, and you didn’t sink, you floated down, like Ophelia, you floated all the way to the beginning.
When you arrived there, you planted the rocks like seeds and restitched your belly with a daisy chain.
You watered those seeds until words grew:
You picked the words and tied a blue ribbon around their stems.
You gave them to me.
You told me this story and then I kissed your scar. I cradled ‘goodbye’. ‘rhythm’, and ‘hope’.
I changed their water and fed you peanut butter banana sandwiches.
I watched ‘goodbye’ grow and ‘rhythm’ die.
Thursday January 26, 2017
In Recognition Of A Quarter Century Of Contribution To UMA
For twenty-five years she watched her father shaking his head at people taking up too many seats on the subway. She finds herself doing it now, or purposefully sitting where a bag sits, so entitled and peppy. “I’m getting off at the next stop,” says a man wearing white sunglasses and brown boots. She doesn’t feel bad. She has a right to that subway seat, more so than the canvas duffle. The summer after her father died, she didn’t ride the subway very often. Preferred to bike or walk.
Wednesday January 25, 2017
From a tweet
When I met you
you were a side effect
sat beside the tallest
woman at the party
eating ketchup chips
and wiping the red
on the couch
hoping no one saw.
When we spoke
you growled like a mutt
spat and licked
When we spoke
I let you do
most of the talking
a bad habit.