Dear Shae, You are a writer. A poet-y pomegranate writer. Your pen slides and windows open, glass doors vanish, the crickets are there creaking and churring in realtime, with bows for legs and hedgerows reveal the imperfectly rounded red berries–each fruit bears a name, a name, each fruit ripens in its own time, in the teeth and splendor of birds with their beaks rounded off by sandblaster sun, gravel rolling around in stomachs, grinding grain into flour, baking bread early mornings while the fog city sleeps. I could write children’s books! Child to child, the child inside the grownup. I speak from kitestrings and puddles, galoshes and huddles, hide and seek magic concealed in the trees.
I came out as a pagan and a recovered alcoholic but most especially as a writer. To be specific, I have come out as a poet. To myself. In this week of reading my leatherbound journals of a decade ago, the writing shines up and out through wine-stained pages and beer bottle labels pressed carefully in place like bookmarks and ponytails of men who I’d hoped would have breasts and why is this subject so difficult? I’m constantly coming out in one way or another.
Elaina brought me a beautiful bowl of food with toast cause I said I was hungry and trying to convince myself I’ve been fasting today. In truth I was too careless and excited to pack food or eat food for my day’s poetry adventures and so when faced with the rumble of my stomach, I just told myself “You are fasting” instead of “You are too broke to buy food right now.” And Carolyn bought me coffee today just because. I hadn’t asked for it, or mentioned wanting it. This is just how the Goddess provides. I miss Cody in my poetry class.
I am a writer. I am a poet. I am not a thief. I do all of this above-board, above the fray my essence . Ego gets tangled too sometimes but remember I am kite strings and puddles, galoshes and huddles, hide and seek magic concealed in the trees. And poetry class in this busy, loud place is just what it is. Just now. This is what I am given, this is what I am livin and that is perfection. What if I waved in the tall grass, the bluegrass, the crabgrass, the Space Needle? What about sitting in front of that fountain with music pulsating, the jetstreams, water arching into liquid cathedrals, umbrellas swivelling in unison, tandem bicycles color harmonicas?
This is where my poet soul lives.