I walked by with my
brokenfingerhands and I
saw you there
with her.
I saw the way your eyes
tracked her smile
and the way your whole self was alive,
loving her.
I love you
more than I love breathing,
so I walked on by
and I kept on walking
and I never let you
see my face.
I hope you never know me;
I hope you love her
and she loves you forever.
I hope you’re happy
where you are.
If I only got the one wish,
I’m glad I spent it all in one place.
Use a heavy-bottomed pan, a big one. Drop in some butter. Top and tail and peel sweet onions. Chop them slowly, and let yourself cry. Sweat the onions in the butter; add salt and pepper. Stir until everything is soft. Until you’re soft.
Trim leeks then half them, lengthwise. Cut them into infinite halfmoon ribbons of springtime green and drop them into a bowl of icy water. Rinse away the hidden grit. Let your hands get red and cold. Drain them well, and add them to the pan. Cook them down until their greenness has grown somehow brighter. Add mince of garlic. One spoon, two, three — four, if it moves you.
Stir and stir and breathe in. Head over the pot. Breathe. This is Delphi. You can find answers here, if you like.
Wash and cube waxen potatoes; add them to the butter and onions, stir until everything is glistening. Until you’re glistening.
Don’t you see? You’re making something with your hands.
Something in the world, something in life stole a piece of your heart, and you’re unlikely to get it back. That hole will consume everything until it finds enough to fill it — so help it along. Fill it with creation, with butter and onions and quiet acceptance that the salt of tears will flavor what you do, for awhile.
Cover the onions and leeks with vegetable stock. Put on the lid, and tidy up your space. You have time. Put the peels and the bits in the compost, to feed the garden. Put the tools in the sink, and wash the knives and boards.
Have a care for the sharp edges of knives, and a love for the round kindness of wooden spoons.
Wait, some. And stir, some. And wait a bit more.
When the potatoes are soft, mash a few, and pour in a heavy dose of milk or cream. More salt and pepper.
Put it in bowls, and share it with as many other people as it can feed. Gather them close, like stones around a fire, to hold in the heat. Warm your belly. Content yourself with a single thing sorted.
Let your body rest.
Nothing has changed in the world. The hole is still there. But something has changed in you. You have made something more than the sum of its parts, with determination and focus. You have filled yourself, at least a little.
What is grief, after all, but a hunger, an emptiness, aching to be filled?
Soup is warm, and life is too short to stay hungry.
You didn’t stay the night. (I wanted you to.)
All of the aching I have known
in the hours, years, centuries I have known you,
has been born of those singular desires
we’ve been taught
we aren’t allowed to have.
I put my skin to your skin
and I am whole.
I put my mouth to your mouth,
and listen to you sing for me.
I want to know
what you can take.
I want to know
what you’ll take of me.
You make these promises
and you don’t keep them.
This turned from
intangible ache (oh why call it intangible
when we both know
how much I can feel it?) into something
closer to yearning,
but all the same
it’s pain, pain, pain.
“You!” said Tiri, looking for the voice. “You’re a fish!”
“That I am,” said the fish. “You are not.”
“No, I’m Tiri,” said Tiri. “Not a fish at all.”
“But you are in my waters, Tiri-Not-A-Fish-At-All.”
“It’s just Tiri.”
“You are in my waters, Justiri.”
Rather than continue to argue, Tiri said, “I am. I don’t mean to be in your waters, but I fell. I can’t seem to get out. My boots are stuck.”
“If I unstick your boots, Justiri, will you get out of my waters?”
“I will try,” said Tiri, who knew better than to be anything but polite to a talking fish. “If I get out of your waters, will you tell me please how you came to be talking?”
The fish bubbled a yes, and then was gone below the surface, into the cold, murky water. Tiri felt a strange pulling at her boots, a pushing and then a pulling, and then it was easier to move, and she stumbled along the shore in the water a few more steps, and then a few more, and Hekka ran alongside, barking brightly.
All was well until she took one-two-tumble more steps, and then she was splash-in the water all over again, and Hekka was barking madly.
Tiri came back up to the surface, coughing and spluttering. She was cold and wet and so very cross.
“You did not get out.”
“I’m sorry,” Tiri apologized, and kept her cross feelings to herself, because she knew better than to be anything but polite to a talking fish. “I’m terrible sorry.”
“If I lift you up, Justiri, will you get out of my waters?”
“I will try,” said Tiri, hopeful. “If I get out of your waters, will you still please tell me how you came to be talking?”
The fish bubbled another yes, and then it was gone below the surface. Tiri felt a strange pushing at her boots, a pulling and then a pushing, and then she was lighter, and she went up up up and Hekka barked so excitedly, Tiri almost forgot what she was doing. She reached out her hands and took hold of the shore, the long dry grasses and the half frozen mud, and pulled herself up and out of the water.
When she looked back down, she saw no sign of the fish.
“Excuse me!” she called, because she knew better than to be anything but polite to a talking fish. “Excuse me, please?”
The fish bubbled to the surface and said, “Yes, Justiri?”
“Will you still please tell me how you came to be talking?”
“Not today. I’m too tired,” the fish explained. “On account of saving you. Come back tomorrow, when the sun is high and the water is warmer.”
* * *
Do you think you are
untouchable?
Nightly we plan the ways
to unravel your skin
dismantle the bones
of your power
and spill the blood
of your oppression
from the broken statue of your chest
Nightly
Nightly
we weave and we potion-make
the witches and warriors you mock
the witches and warriors of whom you are terrified
You cross yourself three times before you cross the street
before you cross us
you’ll bow
you know
you’ll bow some morning
a fool’s bow
and hit your crown on the floor
and finally realize all this time
you’ve been on your knees
