Quisque iaculis facilisis lacinia. Mauris euismod pellentesque tellus sit amet mollis.
— Claire C.

....Read: 카트린 보스폴드..Read: Kathryn Botsford....

To This Human I’ve Not Yet Met

To this human I’ve not yet met.

The first time I saw your picture,

your mama brought it out of her front pocket—

             a little joey in her mama’s pouch.

 

Your daddy pointed out each limb;

you were the size of a nickel.

You’ll be flipping

             heads

                           over

                                       tails

soon. Don’t worry, child. It’s normal.

 

To this human I’ve not yet met:.

When you come into this world,

I’ll be thousands of miles away.

But, your papa will be there to

wash you off and sort out your

             belly button.

And, your mama will be there to

feed you and give you a place that feels like

             home.

 

To this human I’ve not yet met:

             The world is loud, child.

It’s going to be a strange first

             out of belly

experience. Lots of things happen in those

             first few seconds,

and I want you to raise your voice

             above the cacophony.

 

I want your mama to know you’re

             here,

your daddy to know you’re

             safe,

and your Llama and Papa to know they’ve got a

             new human to love on.

 

But mostly, child, I want you to shout

             because your voice is

             important,

even when

—no especially when

             it’s new.

Celebrate, child, cuz this life not meant for

             passivity.

            

To this human I’ve not yet met:

There are so many things I want to give you

I want to give you

             Alphabets with which you can catch thoughts like fireflies

             Puzzle pieces linking what you know to what you don’t

             Chutes to slide down and ladders to climb up

                           cuz you never know where your dreams might take you.

I want to give you

             Erasers to teach you that mistakes will happen, but it’s gonna be okay.

I want to give you

             Bubbles to show you the beauty of fragility

             But also marbles for the beauty of strength

 

But, mostly, I want to give you peace in knowing

             That my love knows no kilometers or knots or miles

             I’ll send it to you on the sun as it crosses our sky

                           through the twinkle in the Moon Man’s eye.

             I’ll fly through time and space, and when I hold you and you smile

                           You’ll know exactly why

             I love you, child.

 

To this human I’ve not yet met:

I’ve loved you since you were a

             joey in your mama’s pouch—

             a nickel in your daddy’s hand

Flipping heads over tails excited to be alive.


sea glass

 

My vagina warrior lived inside of me

pressed down and sodden

like the dregs of yesterday’s coffee grounds.

 

On a ship in a glass bottle,

I admired her—

             A piece of decoration.

 

The beliefs of not good

             enough

                                        and

not beautiful

             enough

chain her to the mast,

splayed her, restrained her

in a way that rendered her

             helpless

             defenseless       and

             naked

to the onslaught of

wave after wave of perfection—

             perception.

 

She will never be

             tall.

She will never be

             thin.

She will never be

             beautiful.

 

My vagina warrior fought these

             shackles.

She rallied the

             force of her arms,

the

             power of her legs

and the cuffs opened

not with a

             Click,

but with the

             Unadulterated

             Wild

sound of the oppressed.

 

Enough

 

The sonic sound shattered the glass.

She refused my

             submissions

my

             control

my

             standards.

 

She relished in her

             strength

and     

             grace.

 

She defied definition.

She created discomfort

to make me fucking feel.

             something         anything

 

She turned to me,

not with rage

but with

             pity--

because I’d kowtowed to

rules     and       opinions    and

             external pressures

changed my self to fit into

society’s

glass bottle—broken

though it may be—

with its missing pieces

and jagged edges

meant to cut me

and keep me from feeling

             independently whole.

Its shards scattered among the

rubble.

There is no way to glue it back together—

             whole

 

My vagina warrior stepped inside of

me,

kissed my edges smooth,

and together we became sea glass.

We entered life,

refusing to be a

             piece of it—

but instead living wholly and beautifully as

             One.


Inside the Binary

 

I wasn’t born a writer.

I didn’t come from the womb sticky with

             verbs or adjectives.

They didn’t check my response to

             prepositions.

They didn’t wipe articles from my eyes.

My heart didn’t beat nouns

I didn’t have ten healthy

             phrases and gerunds.

I didn’t inhale clauses

             and exhale statements.

I did not cry with eloquence

             But with an inarticulate babble

 

There are those who burst with

              hyperbole.

Those whose honeyed breath tastes like

               sweet similes—

their eyes, a metaphor of unspoken truths.  

 

Instead, I became a writer.

I learned from

               books and professors. 

My commas spliced, my voice was passive. 

I combined 0s and 1s to form

               characters on a screen.

I scratched ink onto paper hoping to find

               answers to unknown questions.

 

That’s all born writers do—

transcribe ideas in search of something

                greater.

work outside of binaries to

                craft illusions

                construct realities

 

I am not that.

                I fixate on word choice.

                             I need perfection.

I take their reality and pervade subtlety.

I puncture with nuance.

 

I follow rules.

 

I operate language—

plugging words into their distinct niches of

              subject, verb, object.

 

but real writing is messy punctuation is a suggestion line breaks are superfluous writing 

cannot be perfected writing cannot be tamed the power words wield is greater than

humanity will ever know

 

I wish that I could

              create instead of manipulate.

Maybe someday osmosis will work.

Maybe someday I will learn

              to feel, to breathe, to be

                             language.

Until then, I’ll live in my textbook house made of

              parentheses and ampersands.

....카트린 보스폴드..Kathryn Botsford....

....카트린 보스폴드..Kathryn Botsford....

....Watch: 다미트자니트스 - Prison Bird..Watch: The Dammit Janets - Prison Bird....

....Watch: 다미트자니트스 - Prison Bird..Watch: The Dammit Janets - Prison Bird....

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