A Few Rogue Grounds

I don't cry anymore when I see myself in photos, but the woman and the body are still unrecognizable. The idea that hating others is to hate oneself is somehow easier to swallow than the idea that hating oneself is to hate others. Narcissus may still have a few things to teach. You who carries the sea in your eyes, how can you look upon the waters and not fall in love?

All morning I am netted in his sentences. Remember reading aloud to me? In one pure act I became both a child and woman – one, curling up chastely in the bend of your body as you read – the other, lowering her mouth near your lap, wondering how long you could read with the warmth of my breath on your thigh. I hear your voice in your words and mostly all I can do is melt. Soar, sink and swim. But mostly, melt.

Couscous and black beans. The morning’s cold coffee leaves a few rogue grounds beneath my tongue. I honestly cannot remember how long it has been since I’ve been fishing. However, I do recall my own small hands tying hooks and adding sinkers. And I remember the confusion of impaling worms – so that one might impale a fish – so that one could throw it back. Another knot around violence and men.

I am not a siren singing in the sea. Nor am I serpent, eating her tail, around your neck. I am a dog who loves who she loves, never wavering. Not even in death.