The sun cracked early, its yolks spilling out and thickening the sky. I awoke to crawl through the underwater blankets, to slither beneath the bedroom smells. To stumble, knock my hip against the bookcase, brush my teeth. My plastic pink toothbrush, which I bought at the Red Apple Market in a moment of defiance–yes pink is fine i can use pink–the Red Apple for which Seattle voted “Best Grocery Store Music.”
When Amanda and I get gnarly-pissed about the preponderance of sick-sugar pop music in the queer dance parties around town, there are always waxed dancefloors to be had at that shiny red apple: Chaka Khan, Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, Janet Jackson.
In the morning I sat around a granite table, squashed basketballs of judgement against my knees, trying to contain it. Crossed, uncrossed, recrossed my legs, knocking my shins against the table.
Ate eggs florentine and exclaimed hmmm mmmm MMMM over each lemon-creamy bite. Kissed my lover. Stroked the moon of her eye, nuzzled my nose into her earth.
My friend called and I sat shuffling Tarot cards, brown candles, brown sugar air, a green fluorite crystal rolling in my palm. Reading the cards, unfolding her storyboard.
Napped under lavender, a warm blast of heat, dreamed in Mediterranean shades, curled my toes into fists, kicked off into cypress trees, splashing paint.
The women are now gathered, munching almonds, sipping herbal tea: licorice root, ginger, peppermint. Writing by candlelight, by stone, by feather and bell. Calling us home, home to right now.