Hello homies, homos, and everyone in between!
I’m not sure about you but its it’s been a rough time for this lesbian and it’s hard to make it through (does the Degrassi theme song play whenever you hear that phrase? I didn’t know there was a rap in the extended version??). With work stress, anniversaries I’d rather not celebrate, and the somehow constant reminder that we are indeed surviving in a cisheteronormative white supremacist capitalistic hellscape got ya boi looking long in the face. So what can we do?
I am crawling out of my depression pit to remind you of this banger of a poem, Praise House: The New Economy by Gabrielle Calvocoressi:
The rosemary bush blooming
its unabashed blue. Also dumplings
filled with steam and soup
so my mouth fills and I bubble
over with laughter. Little things.
People kissing on bicycles.
Being able to walk up the stairs
and run back down.
Joanna’s garden after the long flight
to Tel Aviv. Not being detained
like everyone thought I would.
The man with dreadlocks
and a perfect green shirt walking home
from work. One cold beer
before I drink it and get sick.
How peaches mold into compost in a single day:
orange to gray to darkness into dirt.
Her ankle’s taste. The skin
right under the knob, delicate
as a tomatillo’s shroud. All the animals
that talk to me. That I finally let them
talk to me. The blessing of waking
early enough to watch the fox
bathe itself. The suction of a man’s hands
meeting another’s on the street.
Every single person looking up
to see them. Bros, yes. But lovely
in the golden light with brims swung
to the back. I want shoulders like
they have. Want my waist to taper
to an ass built like the David’s. I admit it:
this body’s not enough for me.
Still I love it. Al B Sure blasting
out a Nissan Sentra’s windows.
Bowties. Ridiculous blues.
My mother’s seizures- specifically
that I don’t have them.
That I can answer Ross’ call
or not because we live Harmonious
and are always talking somehow.
Tapestries with their gluttony of deer.
Fig perfume and also cypress.
Boxer briefs and packing socks
in jockey shorts. Strap ons.
Soft and hard. Welcome in her hand
and in mine as I greet the real me.
The little shop in Provincetown.
And the speckled dog that licks itself
in that fresco of the crucifixion.
Mary Oliver. I love her. I really do.
The baseball she gave me
that says, “Go Sox!” Though, I love
the Orioles. Old Bay on all my shrimp.
And justice. And cities burning
if people need to burn them to get free.
My grandmother gardening
in the late light. Sun Ra. The first time.
Paris, even though I’ve never been
there. Natal plums. Tattoos everlasting:
Clouds. Orion’s belt. Pushing inside her
with both hands holding myself
up. My weight. Her grabbing and saying,
“God.” “Fuck.” The neighbors.
Casablanca. Not knowing anything.
Angels. Mashed potatoes. Good red wine.
I’m keeping this as my always reminder these few days.
Today my prayer house: vodka lemonade while watching my family dance as my cousin sprawls across me, singing through panic attacks, boxer briefs, wearing a dress and remembering how much I still love them, my parents teaching me what they learned in their yoga class smiles easy and full, finally joining the trans channel after pacing back and forth, Queer Eye out of context screenshots, my online communities sending me love and encouragement and listening ears, my therapist’s laugh, doing my work even though usually by this time time of year its it’s nearly impossible due to my depression, watching the most inappropriate shows while laughing with my sister at utter foolishness, a guinea pig nearly falling asleep in my hands while I looked around the store, the belief at this moment my grandma is glad I didn’t try to see her again too soon.
What lives in your praise house?
Of course, you don’t have to talk about that! Let me know what’s been going on, how’s how’s your week, are you loving that Wynonna Earp is finally back? Dish, please!
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