Monday, August 21, 2017

Meeting the world's gaze


The willow leaves cut negative space from the afternoon sky. I don't want to over-explain, only offer what is necessary to perceive. We add up the days, cut a year in half, and her sum is I've learned to measure quantity in what is yet to come.

In that I've learned another collection of glances. Where, for two years, if I was seen at all, it was only from behind a wheelchair, and the strangers' eyes that met mine were saintly, smiling, and sad; now the gazes are quizzical at least, when not filled with disdain. I do not understand why we aren't allowed to simply disappear into each other, or the given cityscape. 

What of our pairing?

My fears are threefold:

(1) They assume she is a man.
(2) They assume she is a woman.
(3) They assume that no matter the answer to (1) and, or (2) that they are free to make a judgment regarding her fingers interlocking with mine.

I rarely feel completely secure in public. More often than not I am scanning crowds for possible antagonists, ready to lock eyes with the first contemptuous expression, letting my steady glare tell our onlooker everything they need to know. 

I will defend her with my body. I will defend her with my blood.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Loving Kelli Potter is one of the most remarkable things I have ever done



Crow’s feet. Pointing
in directions taken. All wrong.

Spring fling melted
into a slow summer tango—

a liminal romance &
you offer me ways to live:

creams and vapors,
a softer place to lay.

And as we entwine, cradled
like crabs, limbs clutching

the cardio echo of the other,
I ask if you might be kept.

And rocking, breast against breast
you confess your fear of cages.

I toy with thoughts in an adjacent room;
you are a better hostess than I,

admiring self reflection in tall grasses,
the dandelions gone to seed,

insects, a surrounding conundrum of beauty,
cicada static: variations on a theme &

you emerge.
Like a child’s fascination with what is not within the box—

We pour ourselves into ill-fitting molds
until cracks appear.

Count the futile attempts before the clay holds
true to its design and we discover intent.

Pretense or predisposed,
prepositional and packaged like ladle and broth:

cupped hands and waiting lips reaching
for the reciprocated gifting that is.