Memories

If I had known that my memories would be

The last relics of a bygone era,

I would have kept better care of them.

Perhaps I would have planted them in a garden.

Blossoms and blooms to feed the bees,

They carry my memories on their fu like

Pollen and take them home to enrich their honey.

Maybe my memories are taken tot he sky

In tehe bellies of birds, and flown south

To warmer climates. Maybe the snakes

Flick the air with their tongues and taste

My memories on the wind. Maybe the sun

Bakes my memories in to the earth, dry

And cracked like the mud of a dried up river wash.

Had I known that my memories would be

The only things left of the flowers the bees the birds the snakes,

Maybe I would have worked harder to keep them

From turning into nothing but memories.

Kintsugi

The Art of Breaking:

By their nature the bowls down't break in uniformity

Humans don't break neatly either

AS the potter shatters, scattering large

And small

Pieces across the linoleum floor,

So, too, does the soul shatter, ugly and sharp

Maybe it's also natural to throw the pieces away in anger

After all, a pot in shards can no longer hold a flower

A person in pieces is difficult to love

Ugly and sharp, you could cut your hand, make yourself bleed

And Being Put Back Together:

Ugly and Sharp, and yet still worth something

Pick up the pieces, put them together

Fill the cracks with silver and gold, with care, with love

The gentle touch fo someone who has known what it's like to be broken

And put back together again

And the bowl in pieces is whole once more

The soul in pieces is whole once more

Maybe it isn't like it was before

Maybe the water still leaks out, maybe the flower isn't quite straight

And maybe I like it better now regardless

Maybe I like myself filled with silver and gold

Radical Unknowing: Musings on What it Means to Feel Undefined

I use a word like "agender" to help others understand who I am, but if you were to ask me on a deeper level, I would say no words really fit me. Agender doesn't convey the truth, but if I were to say that I am gender-less, I am nothing, I am just a creature who exists, the world wouldn't understand.

It's not as if I believe myself to be above labels; labels are good, they are useful, they help us make sense of the world and in turn, the world can make sense of us. But I know, deep down, that I am only a being created of stardust. I am here by happenstance. I was borne out of choices made by ancient humans long before I was ever even a thought in the mind of the universe, and to me that goes beyond any words the world can use to pin me down. I just am. I am everything and I am nothing all in one.

Society will call me a woman because of the body parts I possess. Politicians will make laws because of those parts, because those not born to them seem to believe they have the qualifications to dictate what happens inside them. I live my life wondering if I would feel differently had I been born with different parts, but understanding deep in my soul that, no, I would not. This is who I am. This is who I always have been. This is who I will always be.

The world may not understand who I am, not really, not ever, but I understand who I am. They try to tell me I am confused, that I don't know my mind, but I have been living with my mind for decades now.

If i would not know myself now, when would I know myself ever?

Exploring Gender in Walmart, Aisle 17: A Short Story

None of the bras truly fits her. They are all either too big or too small. The men’s jeans don’t fit either. The butt is too flat and the crotch too much. No room for what her mother calls her “birthing hips.” Trust her, she knows how ridiculous the phrase sounds. It’s even worse when her mother begins on what the men must think of them. 

When James’ mother begins one of these conversations, she wishes she were a boy. Or something Other. Not boy or girl but something new. She would remove her uterus. No need for one of those when she doesn’t want a baby. She might keep her breasts. Maybe get a breast reduction to keep them out of her way. 

Pink isn’t the devil like it once was. Nor are dresses, though she rarely wears them. They don’t feel like an extension of her body as they did when she was a child. Now, she feels vulnerable in them. It’s unfortunate that jeans under dresses went out of fashion a decade ago, for jeans give her a sense of protection. 

No one told her that if they didn’t want to be a girl he didn’t have to be. They never said he could be something else. They only ever told them to accept these secondary sex characteristics and the leering that accompanies them. Eventually, she’ll love them. Or learn to suffer silently. 

They never did say that anyone could be free. Only pretend to be. 

Well, new year, new gender. Aren’t resolutions just broken promises in the making? Another set up for failure?

You Can Take the Mermaid Out of the Sea...

 

Agatha anchors Eva to the land and to the present.

Crisp clear waves call to her through a seashell collection  

on the back of a small toilet. Clouds fog her eyes, darkening.

Then, a hand catches hers. Twirling skirts and curly hair, 

Agatha and Eva deliver quick, harsh stomps to 

their poor wooden floor. Tig leaps atop a desk, 

meowing after they edge too close  

to her snoozing form.  

 

Collapsing onto their only rug, 

Eva promises, “One day, I will 

take you home with me. Even 

if I must cut my own tail off 

and give it to you.” 

 

Agatha laughs. “There must be 

enough blood in the world 

without adding yours.”