A Skater, Mechanic, and Muscian Walk into a Bar

Yesterday I couldn't think of the word “rigging.” Words disappear and then what? Mourning doves coo within an envelope of mist. Light deepens as rain-but-not-rain falls from pools held in the crowns of oaks. Make the coffee; write the thing. Honesty returns as bellwether.

And, begin.

I am an imposter. The question is, what role am I playing? One person sees the witch, another sees an ordinary suburban woman, and still others see Little Red Riding Hood making, collecting and delivering food to her grandmother in the deep woods. Some days I wake and know that I am Mary Magdalene's kin, maybe even her modern day embodied self. Other dawns break open upon a liar who puts on make up and does her hair in order to present as acceptable. There are so many stories a shapeshifter can tell. In the dream, beloved says, “choose one.”

Growing up, I dated a skater, a mechanic, a musician, a few jocks, hot heads and a few quiet boys. I married an aviator. Dating boys shifted my attention and awareness away from who I was as a whole person; I was venerated for melting into the form of whomever was required.

It is no small task to undo what has been done all these years. The outline of a red haired, hippy child breaks the lone sunbeam in woods of memory. She and Joan Baez wink at one another as they realize they love the same way.