Hunting Season

I’ll crawl under your skin and wear you
for protection 
to scramble and scoot in the nettles and
snow-angel in the alfalfa fields. I’ll wear you
until you shred off in pieces left
in the northeast fields pieces left
on the salt block of the south field.
I’ll walk in front of the hunter’s lookout
in your skin
I’ll ask him if my rack is big enough to shoot—shoot and
stuff me for a mantle piece.
One day I’ll gather your skin layers and
glue it patchworked back together and 
take you out to the rhododendrons to apologize,
is that apology enough?

Avocado Wednesday

The new seasons checker asks me if I’ve gotten any younger and I say
no.
But I’m thinking about getting older.
I’m thinking about the people who mean things to me.
And what kinds of fruit their faces will become when they grow older.

Yours—a mandarin
Yours—a pinkerton avocado.

Avocados.
There were no good ones at the store today and I hear they’re rapidly going away.
Will your children know what an avocado is when I tell them that’s what your skin has become?
But I probably won’t know you then, or ever know your kids,
I only know you now,
like how now I’m concerned about the lack of avocados
and tomorrow it’ll be the pink lady apples
and I’m not sure what’s after but it’ll be something
(maybe I’ll have come around to grapefruit by then).

This is all to say I’m worrying about missing you
and I’m worrying about what comes after that
when you move far enough away from my mind and from my senses for me to stop,
missing you quite so consciously.

I’m afraid of the point where I stop knowing you.
Where I stop being able to say, “Thats so _________”

Drafts.drafts.Drafts

“You’d Burst the Tympanum of Her Ear”

You piled trampolines on top of one another
until you reached her bedroom window—
You coiled Gerber Daisies in your hands,
you screamed, “I think I’m allergic to daisies”
until you broke your ribs.
 
She climbed out of her bedroom
and resorted your ribs.
She brought you Russian Tea Cakes
and held your hand.
 
You said, “Thank you,”
and she mouthed, “I can’t hear you.”

Speaking a name

"… but mourning isn’t madness and neither is fidelity, the mad ones are those who forget and refuse to name and always act as if nothing were the matter, so I left the warm, sleepy house and the circles forming around that name that had fallen into the heavy water of silence, at the time when, before, I used to call him, I went out into the garden, already dark and rainy, down to the bank of the river rolling its yellow waters, I said sorry to him, from the bottom of my heart sorry, sorry once again for having carried his pain instead of easing it, for having suffered from it instead of loving him, sorry for having tried to hard to console myself for him.
(Ultimately, all I’m doing in writing this book is to speak his name.)”
-No One, Gwenaelle Aubry

Mad, uncertain places.

"It was only when I leaned over to place a kiss on his forehead, still warm, smooth, and calm, that the little girl inside me woke up, her child’s body quivered, and with it the very ancient, deep, silent, faithful imprint of this body beside it, these arms that had carried here, cradled her, the shoulders against which she had pressed her face, the hand that, at bedtime, would draw magical signs on her forehead to accompany her into sleep, to protect her from the night, this child’s body, awoken in an instant, was in an instant crushed, town away, rooted out, along with him who had given her life, leaving her, the adult, more empty and hollow than a young woman who has just given birth. The madness of death, of the body, that remains, stranded, opaquely, stubbornly present, a monumental stone inscribed with sins now forever meaningless, madness of being torn apart by presence and absence, and of the days that followed when I sensed him lying there, worried and weighty, in a cold room by the Seine, kept back on the bank, frustrated in his desire, the great desire that had long been his, for nothingness, yes, to that I would have preferred annihilation, the void striking like lightning, a shipwreck with all hands, anything but this uncertain place … "

-No One, Gwenaelle Aubry

Body of Words

"You can’t lose a father, particularly a father who was lost, or lost himself. It was perhaps while he was alive that we lost him, that we no longer knew who or where he was. Now that he’s dead we gather up what he left, the crumbs and pebbles strewn through the forests of his anxiety, the treasure and the wreckage; we construct a void, we sculpt an absence, we seek out a form for what remains of him in us and has always been a temptation toward formlessness, a threat of chaos; we seek out words for what was always the secret, silent part in us, a body of words for a man who has no grace, a castle of presence to protect his absence."
-No One, Gwenaelle Aubry

Writing exercises.

In Fear, Expectations, Anticipation and Hope

Georgia experiences all of these when she jumps from a tree in the backyard. She says: What if the ground falls away? What if the ground runs away? What if I have hollow bones like a bird? What if I just fall fall fall like a normal person? I tell her one time I jumped and my hair caught and I swung like a tangled Rapunzel and no one was there but 28 chickens who teased and tickled my feet and checked for worms. Georgia asks if they found any and now she won’t jump because she’s afraid there are worms in my toes and now she wants to jump because she wants to see them. Maybe she can build a worm farm and maybe they’ll be good pets and I say: Georgia, there are no worms

Recent Writes.

Skin

You once told me: “The scar on my back is from a stab wound.”

Someone had wanted to pull your insides out like fig

                                                                                    marionberry

                                                                                                jam.

Someone wanted to taste your jammy insides on sourdough toast.

In the middle of the day I bike under book leaves.

                        my eyes shrink everything

                                                I am in a miniature book leaf fort.             It is dark.

I can smell the leaves, recently saturated with November.

In the blackness I punctuate my time with my pedals:    ,              ;             ,            /            /            .

I might like to taste your skin—unzip your insides

                                                            starting from your scar.

I wouldn’t waste your entrails: I’d put them in the compost.

But I’d start with the skin of your stomach:                        tender.

                        Swallow.

                                                I’d swallow your skin and feel it fold in neat piles in my belly.

I’d wait for your scar to appear on my back: I’d wait for your skin to weld against mine.