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to acommunityofbecoming@chaelee.com03/03/2018 11:13 pm
stomach a lump of clay on the wheel
dip my hands into water
let them part the seas
the clock reads 11:13
late for being late
a jasmine plant grows
on my windowsill now
yesterday
I picked the small dried brown blooms
tangled in the living flesh
I dropped them onto the soil below
and considered them for a time
the day before,
a faded rose,
sitting atop my bookshelf,
fell to the ground
in a moment
that would otherwise have been still
I spent the next hour peeling its leathery petals
the outer layers a pale pink
turning browner and browner
I tried to wrest free another layer of skin
when black spindly seeds burst forth
like so many dark tadpoles
collecting on the blanket spread across my knees
I thought about viruses and the undead
I feel murkiest now
on my surface
stained glass in shades of amber and grey
a small moth rests inside my mouth
I let it flutter
or pin it
wriggling
to underside of my tongue
I haven’t bled in months and now it all comes
staining my clothes
I feel uncontrolled for the first time in a long time
I run through floodwaters
watch the rain form waterfalls at the edge of the sidewalk
these new rivers rush past the traffic lights
no stopping
not now
not for this
when I get home, I slather blue goop on the clothes
watch all signs of red disappear in sloshing bubbles
like it never happened at all
like none of it did
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to emergence_and_emergency@alex.com24/03/2018 2:13 am
stomach a lump of clay on the wheel
spinning this working art and I
dip my hands into water
watch their murky reflection
let them part the seas
let my skin time travel
I make a retroactive wish too
late for being late
I miss the missing
a jasmine plant grows
out of itself
on my windowsill now
how old can you call this being
yesterday
mourning beneath the sunrise
I picked the small dried brown blooms
steeped in scent still
tangled in the living flesh
their leaves caught between my fingers
I dropped them onto the soil below
my feet a living earth
and considered them for a time
no more than this body
the day before
I forgot to tell you
from the garden
sitting atop my bookshelf
pressed closely in between spines
fell to the ground
like love
in a moment
that would otherwise have been still
there
I spent the next hour peeling its leathery petals
decomposing the rose’s unassuming growth
the outer layers a pale pink
closer to the core
turning browner and browner
like a rotting fruit
I tried to wrest free another layer of skin
not knowing what’s inside and what’s outside
when black spindly seeds burst forth
out of the bud
like so many dark tadpoles
a community of becoming
collecting on the blanket spread across my knees
I wondered about emergence and emergency
I thought about viruses and the undead
I thought about my sickness and my unliving
I feel murkiest now
not where the light
on my surface
has illuminated
stained glass in shades of amber and grey
but in the places that strain for darkness
a small moth rests inside my mouth
its wings tickling my canines sometimes
I let it flutter
in its humid cage
or pin it
an entomology assignment
wriggling
in the rising tide of my saliva
to underside of my tongue
before I chew and swallow
I haven’t bled in months and now it all comes
my body’s borders blurring and
staining my clothes
insides outing themselves
I feel uncontrolled for the first time in a long time
know what it means to release
I run through floodwaters
shed my shoes and feel the droplets slide down my legs
watch the rain form waterfalls at the edge of the sidewalk
we keep going through those undead ends
these new rivers rush past the traffic lights
tangle up in each other
no stopping
the current
not now
it’s not past
not for this
end
when I get home, I slather blue goop on the clothes
dip my hands into water
watch all signs of red disappear in sloshing bubbles
a part of and from my body gone
like it never happened at all
like none of it did