To Eat and To Be Eaten

Life's sudden fatigue.

Wildflowers ignite along the back fence and finally something feels right in the world.

The garden is planted but not without a lesson about who is tending whom and why.

Daybreak greetings to all of the not-yet flowers; all the toads frantically looking for leaf cover; all the milkweed seeds taking hold.

Lily of the Valley in the tiny jam jar on the nightstand.

There is a sense of contempt in the idea that breasts nourish life for the young, desire for the old, and death to the host who must bear them all. These bodies are somehow equipped to assist in the transference of life and light, and yet, they also take us so far away from all of that. It is getting harder and harder to accept the idea that bodies are useful for that which endures forever.

So what does love have to do with bodies?
Despite everything,
nothing.

I remember ice skating across the bay, the sun's reflection off the garish whiteness of winter. Wind burned my cheeks as I swung my arms side to side, gaining speed and lengthening my stride. In my head, the faster I skated, the less likely I would be to break through the ice and drown. Occasionally my toe pick would catch on rough ice or a divot in the glassy track, sending me hard onto my face or worse, directly onto my knees. I remember lying there after a fall, staring face down into the deep waters. I imagined turtles safely asleep but also, I feared something toothy and huge swimming by, ready to break through and devour me.

I didn't fear Hansel's hungry witch, but put a giant, shadowy, fish with teeth in the mix and I'm out!

Remember when the white, male, physics teacher hit on me when I was 16 years old? Sometimes we think we are looking at one thing when really, we are looking another.

A witch, a giant fish, a predatory man – how we are fed matters – how we feed one another matters too.