Posts for June 23, 2021 (page 5)

Prelude
Have you ever looked into The eye of a cow?
No, I mean really looked.
Have you ever been close enough to a dairy cow
to see her soul shining?
Close enough to smell her grassy breath?
Close enough to feel her anguish
for the calves taken away?  

Friendship
Me alone in a new place.
For the first time living in the country.
Real country. Gravel and dirt roads.
Wheat, canola and lentil fields stretching to the horizon.
And dairy cows. Lots and lots of dairy cows.
Holsteins mostly, but one farm was all Jerseys.
Fawn colored, long-tailed Jerseys. Brown eyes, long eyelashes.

Every morning I talked to the Jerseys.
Stopped by the fence and said, “Hello Cows.”
One morning, a cow loped to the fence, looked me in the eye.
“Hello cow,” I said. “
Moo,” she said and came closer.
I reached out my hand. She put her head down.
I scratched behind her ear. She closed her eyes.  

Every morning after, we talked.
I said hello, she mooed. One day, a few of her sisters
followed. We had a group chat; 10 cows and me.  
I fell in love.  

The irony
in order to get out and away,
One must dive in.
Surrounded by people
And thoughts too loud for words.
Anonymity and a mask bring solace amongst the noise.
My own face and life unrecognizable.

At 30,000 feet the clouds clear

And the mountains seem manageable.

Iron-nickel rock
repeatedly heated,
iced, spent across  

sad trajectories-
denied gulps
of atmosphere.   

Beyond the perihelion,
stretched limestone night,
my comet life cools.

which, of course, weren’t locusts. More
like sailors, drunk careening
toward sex and death. That’s all they
get for all that waiting. Could
be that’s all anyone gets.
Pity now the neighbor’s hens’
virgin clucking in their coop.

Your new therapist matter-of-factly draws a horizontal line
across a blank 8″-by-10” sheet of paper and hands it to you:
“This is the timeline of your life from birth ‘til now.
I want you to fill it in with every traumatic event
you can remember.” You hesitantly reach out,
take the paper from her, your right hand trembling
in the air as you accept it on a clipboard, your left hand’s
fingers clenched tight across your restless thumb.
Always prepared, you choose to use your own pen,
because of the familiar way it contours to your hand
and flows across the paper. You’re looking down,
pen in hand, already starting to draw tick-marks
on the blank page because the top of your scalp
is already starting to prickle, the back of your neck
heating up and beginning to sweat just because
you can sense her awareness of you writing on the page.
A quick, darting glance across the cozy space confirms
that she’s taking her own notes on her own clipboard,
not looking over at you, but that doesn’t do much
to alleviate the sweat droplets that have begun
to drip down the back of your neck and shoulders.
You sense the telltale signs of a pink, flushed heat rash
forming at the base of your throat and collarbone,
above the v-neckline of your floral t-shirt.
You have only drawn three tick-marks.
It seems that you might run out of time in your session.
Your handwriting becomes slanted, hopelessly messy,
as your hand cramps up after only noting three events.
You have detailed birth until 2001. 
Twenty years remain uncharted.
Your breathing quickens as you realize you are
running out of room on the horizontal line she drew;
you start drawing arrows haphazardly above and below
what you’ve already managed to recount,
wondering what is worth including and what to leave out
for time’s sake.  You manage to ask how much time
remains in your session.  How have only five minutes
elapsed since you began? You’ve inhaled and exhaled
enough times in the past five minutes to have
enough breaths stored for at least fifteen minutes.
You have five minutes remaining.
You finish writing in three.
Those final two minutes give you just enough time
to second-guess each entry you have made
corresponding to each tick-mark on the timeline.
Doesn’t everyone go through distress in school,
grieve the sudden loss of loved ones?
Your eyes get stuck on 2001:
First known instances of psychosis
with auditory and visual hallucinations;
lasted several months & was deemed to be
a neurological reaction from medication.
You were 12 years old.  Maybe not everyone.
You carefully hand the timeline across the space
to your new therapist, this person you chose on the internet
who now has a copy of (some of) the darkest chunks of your life
almost-illegibly noted on a piece of paper.
She assures you that she will be able to read it,
you gather your water bottle and purse,
make sure you remember your keys.
This session will mark the fourth therapist
you’ve been supposed to trust.
As you splash cold water on your face and neck
in the bathroom, leaving your wrists
under the rushing cold water for what seems
an infinity, you can’t help but start to sense
the doubt that creeps up your spine as a shiver,
doubt that threatens to dissolve the tiny seed of hope
that has rooted at the base of your skull.
Hope that you’ll be able to tell this one the truth.
Hope that she’ll give you the needed wait time to speak your truth.
Hope that you can muster the bravery to keep going.

I am going to be that bisexual,

the one you judge as greedy,

because I want more.

I admit

I am in a perfectly happy

relationship

with a woman,

but

I still hunger to have

a man in my life,

to follow that urge that was awakened

as a preteen,

the one I denied and repressed

until my 20s.

In many ways,

I’m still the person I was at 21.

I still don’t feel “gay enough”

or attractive enough

to have a boyfriend.

I still feel lost

as to how to find one.

And all my mentors

who were meant

to initiate me

and teach me

things like how to cruise

are gone now.

There is something delicious

about my encounters with men

which I love.

A different flavor of intimacy.

Something like that sense

of fooling around

in basements as a teenager

with my closest friends.

But this isn’t just about sex.

I can get sex.

I think I can get sex.

But the feeling I get

when another man

romances me,

that’s unique.

I cherish the few times

it’s happened.

I got the girl,

i got the house,

I should cash my chips in and go home.

But no,

I’m that idiot on

Deal or No Deal

who is risking everything

for the ultimate prize.

Most people spend their life

searching for a soul mate,

and I’m on the hunt for number two.

I know it’s selfish,

but I won’t apologize.

If I had been able

to come out to myself sooner,

maybe I would already have him.

If I hadn’t wasted a decade on religious fear,

maybe he’d be here.

If it hadn’t taken me forever

to feel okay

wanting what I want,

instead of giving in

to societal pressure,

maybe I’d have a boyfriend.

And yes,

I know

I am probably

projecting all kinds of things

onto the wonderful man

who is not here yet.

He probably won’t complete me

or sweep away the

last lingering bits of loneliness

from my soul.

He won’t make me any more woman

than I already am.

He may not have the perfect cock.

And he may not be willing to watch

all fourteen hundred and counting

films

in the Criterion Collection

with me.

But a transgender girl can dream.

You chase your unicorns

and I’ll chase mine.

There’s something intoxicating

about the thought

of a man

who falls so deeply

in love with me

that he’s willing to be

my secondary partner

and make me his primary one.

Maybe Robert Palmer was right

and I’m addicted to love

and being wanted.

Or maybe it’s possible to have it all,

more than an occassional taste

of intimacy with a man.

Yes, I’m that bisexual

your mother warned you about,

not satisfied with monogamy.

Not satiated

with the love

of one amazing woman alone.

No, I’m that greedy bitch

who wants to drink deeply

from the well of love, romance,

and sexual pleasure.

scale
a barren mesa

jagged beige vista

   one safe
        step

     then the
            next

pink dust tints
boots  darkens white
socks

   a footslip

rocks
       slide
              bounce
                   off
                        trail
                            down
                            facade
                            to juniper
                            and prickly
                            pears  settle
                            into new red dust home

my gratitude for not tumbling
set in stone

I don’t want to explain why it’s funny
I just want to laugh