Sleep with a wildflower
And wake up with a rose.
Tend to her until she has no thorns again.
Hold them in your fist
– – The fist the size of her heart
Push them into her sow
until she sinks six feet under.
Smoothered.
Keep her watered and warm
And help her breathe underwater
where the rocks are softer than your revenge.
Then, when the thorns push back,
Claw into the soil and rip the roots.
To extinguish both the wildflower and the rose.
It’s official!
Thank you to my loyal readers and friends who have been consistent supporters of my writing. I have recently begun to post to Medium and am happy to announce I just completed my own book via Blurb!
The book is available for purchase here: https://www.blurb.com/b/9538652-the-culture-of-water
Thank you for your continued support and I look forward to updating you on this labor of love.
-J
I will miss you.
My dear wildflowers and wolves,
You have walked more miles
to reach the well than anyone I know.
You’ve earned it.
Drank from life and she has spoiled you in her senses.
Fluidity.
Movement.
Do not judge her
for her wits have no end
She is the water
and she travels alone, yet moves with the help of others.
Be gentle and welcoming.
Howl at the highest moon when she retreats and I will hear you…
Miss you
Call you back
and stretch for the highest mountain to bring you in again.
I will miss you.
In the mornings she sits perched at the window.
Today, her view of the world is different than the days before.
This morning she sees a small child making breakfast in the kitchen.
The child moves about in a familiar slumber, eyes rubbed open and feet dragging in defeat. Even with his eyes half open, he navigates across the kitchen from site to site with complete trust, leaving every cabinet open behind him.
She smiles almost completely as a hummed laugh.
Processing the moment, she steps away from the outside of that window and wallows.
This window could have been.
But will never again.
The child in the window is a dream
Of what would have been if she had not drove off in the middle of the night. Had she not purchased that flight in the instinct of a fight; vowed to her freedom over a family.
Now, her world has no windows looking out.
I shouldn’t hate him,
I hardly knew him.
There was a time, sitting in his car
When I was sure he would kiss me
I imagined the entire thing:
An unbuckled seatbelt,
A slight twist
The slow slide of his hand under my chin
And his thin eyes
Growing thinner until closed.
I would lean in slightly,
Hands still crossed on my lap
And blush from his actions
Playing coy.
You like me?
We would hold hands for two years
Stay over with each other sparatically
Have our parents meet
And soon after, have our first child.
The storms would be heavy
The beauty would be unending.
We would live in a foreign country for a year
And travel for a few more
Until settling down again
On our own.
But he never did lean in.
And so we transition
Back to oral histories
Until our fingers forget symbols.
We will listen
And share
And never mind the others
And their stories;
Their truths.
We will close ourselves in chambers that echo into soundbites.
Taps of repetition
On your frontal cortex
Until the pains are those you feel comfortable managing.
Listen.
Do you hear the story
In your hand?
Truth is in an algorithm
And a skip.
The Culture of Water 