March 2025 (how the ground thawed)

I am reminded how books seep through me while twisting a glass, realizing my pinky nail scrapes the very pit. I haven't finished a book in 3 years.

with the desk cleared now, I find your postcard in Arabic script,

“We teach life”

in a tower, i am writing on the blackboard with real chalk. Monica Berlin begins, as she began every morning in earnest – “I hope everyone you love is well today”. I am peeling an orange and not sharing it.

I am reminded of the ways I close my mouth. the ways I bend over. open my mouth and holes. of the places I leave my shit. the places I show my face.

of my face

my face

My ankles fold, now sitting at the desk. I am deliberating if the dead collaborate. To speak to me in the same moment, or for each other. In a way, they let me trace.

At the desk, my body rattles the doors of the dark paneled chest, tall and carried here by Meltem.I wonder if she is alive and why I did not stay closer. Stay closer – it chants. I stay scared. so I carry myself to the mat, to the men who sigh at each blow. Still after months, my mouth hangs open, i’m dressed in all white

it’s on me, this stench. John’s sweaty hands on my forehead as he tilts me in, and down, like a wave. Richard says – good work tonight. My turn to wait. Over a week before hearing that again. I bang the heels of my hands on my forearms, just like he said to. My forehead is dry but I won’t cover myself in oil, not tonight.

after The Wrong End of the Telescope, by Rabih Alameddine.

note to Heron, march 12th –

I watch this video (Bamboo #1) more than any of our others.

You, looking around and saying –  I feel young, in here.

The bamboo forests I’ve found here, in the city are places

my body goes with need. with longing, with determination. With patience, I see us

of the lake, seeing sand after sand, so many different pieces.