Words Birthed From The Root

WOrDS BIrTHED FroM THE roOT writings from the digging deep facing self course july 2014

introduction.

This round of the Digging Deep, Facing Self online course was perhaps most challenging and enlightening as a facilitator. Our participants were fiercely engaged, open about their struggles, willing to give deep feedback and ask for guidance. Not all of us identified as woman - though a touch of womanhood lived in all of us. We were layered, complex and demanded our space, sometimes quietly at first, and then with a bit more gusto and force. The journey, for all of us, became confronting, nourishing, rattling and moving. Nothing stayed hidden. We surfaced and emerged.

I am in deep gratitude writing this introduction to our fifth anthology.

The words enclosed between these pages jump off the page with vibrancy, strike every emotional chord and invite the reader to not only find themselves in the poems, but also engage in questioning those mirrors. Astonished at the quality of writing, I think you'll also find that the topics are approached with vulnerability. Even the simple is deceptive here. This is one deep-diving group of writers who understand identity is often messy, always multifaceted and full of both celebration and contradiction. These writers understand life.

Please note, dear reader, that many pieces are hot off the press with minimal editing. They are raw form explorations, which makes them urgent, important, seering. Keep them gently balanced in your hands, but eat your heart out.

A special dedication to Sabina Ibarrola, our DDFS Teaching Assistant, for being an instrumental organizer and voice in this course. You made me better, beloved, you made all of us better.

Thank you for your tremendous gifts and commitment. You elevated our whole she-bang.

To my participants: shine on, you precious gems. All I had to do was press a little polish over your coats. The gleam underneath, luminous. When I think about the world I would like to inhabit, a world where we are able to uncover our truths and engage the shadow and the magic, where we are able to live in community and be unafraid to face the self‌ I see it here, in these pages. Thank you

for this example. Thank you for spreading it, for speaking it and for simply facing it. Awake.

Write on!

Caits To join us in the next round of Digging Deep, Facing Self: www.caitsmeissner.com/course

table of contents. untitled / Lizzie Busch reconstructing / Sara Primo when they come for your family / Candice Iloh at play / Candice Iloh i grew up under my mother’s chin / Fernanda Marroquin Gozalo i don’t notice / Nina Spierer while she reads the news / Nina Spierer transit / Leanne Tory-Murphy woman / Leanne Tory-Murphy spread out / Sa Fa dear you / Sa Fa my mother taught me to breathe / Mieke D there is never enough time / Mieke D untitled / Felicity Scarce praise / Felicity Scarce envy / Monique Schubert re-constructed self-portrait / Monique Schubert what you have / Malaika Aleba the anxiety poem / Malaika Aleba i’m still here / Elena Yesner august 2006 / Elena Yesner oh mother, / Hannah Dees womyn lineage / Javiera Infante hauntings / Javiera Infante true north / Stacey Engels gold and yellow / Teshale Nuer blue and white / Teshale Nuer

untitled.

Lizzie Busch

One: You are heart-sore, and I am your lover, but I feel like your old jeans, the ones you pull over your thighs and hope won’t rip this time.

You look at me with my eyes closed and see right through the lids. You ask me to take you to the doctor, take you to the airport, take you to bed. I am lace, and I look pretty covering your table. The light in your bathroom burnt out, and you balance a lamp on the toilet. Light bulbs break when they fall, though, and they keep burning.

Two: You are heart-sore, and I am your lover, but really I am that old miniskirt you won’t let me wear outside. I am legs bared, boys staring down the block at me. I am grinding spiked heels into the sidewalk. In the kitchen, you think I am yours, but I am really that frying pan, hot-oiled-up, sizzling when you throw water on me. And I am the rolling pin it takes all your broken triceps to roll. When you let me go, I am a waterfall.

Three: You are heart-sore, and I choose to be your lover. The world a knife at your back, and I held you like a baby, soothed your aching armor. I made you soup with sweet potatoes, onions and garlic. Still, I said yes when you asked me to empty all the drawers. I waited for you at the train and held your hand. You felt the distance in my chest, the ghost by the window. But the turmoil in my belly erupted onto you.

reconstructing.

Sara Primo

The best is not my skin, whose cove pores and countryside stumps in photos look like the texture of a living planet.

Nor is it my hair: sun-kissed train tracks.

It is easily my breasts.

Except that I don't have breasts; I have the tips of boats going somewhere, gliding efficiently through soft, glassy waters.

Look at them, so plentiful and surprising, like the funky inner lining of a coat, like the intoxicating cocktail of wet asphalt and cut grass.

Making my body look healthy, optimistic.

Making my torso electric, adorned with twinkly white lights.

My energetic center of gravity, my luscious summer fruit.

My arched bridge that is an engineering revelation.

Strong and graceful; tested support.

My Vermont mountains, which, when seen from a valley in October, will take your breath away.

when they come for your family.

Candice Iloh

she is wrapped in my childhood comforter head lightly placed above the largest pillow facing the television still not laying her eyes upon anything in particular she is also under too many layers of clothing one dark grey sweat shirt, two tee shirts two pairs of pants and several pairs of socks it is still arctic here for her, mid july the sun a memory, a longing, a myth a cherished delicacy in her decaying mouth her abating body will attempt to climb the woolen flight of stairs again today we are thankful they are not bare with hard wood that show no mercy to bones that could fall upon them at any moment there is something about broken bones and shattered glass mixed with bloodied rubble throughout streets where cries sound in chorus with army tank engines, gunshot and siren all sing together in communion or maybe for sport, something to do when none know what to do about hatred that runs so deep their children were born with it, limbs and unclaimed shoes now lining buildings that used to be their schools the man on the microphone say there is nothing more shameful than attacking sleeping children the women having thrown their bodies across small carcass that they once bore, limp corpses glazed in drenched night gowns and glass crusted debris heads titled back toward the open blue eyes swollen and tired of this

the man on the tv say You have to understand, if you attack Israel, there have to be consequences hearing a sudden scream followed by a thud from upstairs Aunt Helen, being bullied by a ravenous monster who will stop at nothing to scavenge more than her rotten breast eating from the inside out, collapses in the bathtub, still not asking for help who will suffer consequences for this

at play.

Candice Iloh

doing a grown up thing in this bathroom stall a white abyss of tag, she is it the brown spot on an aging banana batter turned loaf i touch to see if it is soft like mine kiss to see if is sweet our faces blank having seen the ghost of our innocence past, we see off into the distance where this is nothing we pretend not to like this pretend the other is not there anyone could walk in at any moment we have been gone with the hall pass for at least 10 minutes now how long does it take two little girls to pee? they were not sent together

i grew up under my mother’s chin.

Fernanda Marroquin Gozalo

held by the softness of her belly her arms wrapped around the half-moon of my shoulders, mi papa knew how to put mountains back together. back apart. the ultimate killer of cucarachas, creepin’ up our nose and into our dreams i never heard his feet drag when getting home beneath the moon’s glow on Paterson streets, or when he placed food on our wooden table piles of chicken wings that would have otherwise been inside hotel trash cans and not in our bellies it’s our leap into the mouth of tomorrow, hustlin’ everything we could ever need into our home from the gringo’s curb makes immigrant living rooms full the womyn of my family rise from the earth brown arms extended upward in prayer, they arrange the clouds and knit seeds in the depths of their womb “las mujeres de esta casa son las que mandan!” mi mami praises “We also did not know that things would be so hard even after all these years… we barely drifted our way across oceans toda una familia on two wings, y ahora sin papeles carrying culpa on our backs like stones” i remember the vibrant chuckle of my grandmother their beautiful faces and dichos and I hear their voices in this midsummer room blooming croton by windowsills

heavy greens with splatters of lava red I place my feet on the kitchen’s icy ceramic surface received by the curve of lips into a wave of teeth the dog barking nearby, the aroma of aji de gallina mazamorra morada y resistancia swiftly moving across the room, I rest my chin on my mother’s shoulder tough like an oak tree steady through years of wind

i don’t notice.

Nina Spierer

until after the first one smashed through the train door Fag, I should punch you in the fucking face a slim hipped boy standing straighter the apple firmly planted on his head hey fag, I’m talking to you I pull my eyes down grateful for myfemalebody for its ability to squeeze unnoticed by this man's snipered gunshot sight avoice slicked that could have said hey dyke, I’m talking to you hey I like eating pussy too hey where are you going I imagine the door opening to a minefield of daisies the 5 flights to my apartment leading to red, red mountains against a blue sky, to my kitchen brewing coffee and a morning with the softest eyes

while she reads the news.

Nina Spierer

that city plucked from a map in a story book white walls crumble playing hide and seek with alleys cafes push themselves through to the market where nuts fill and fill burlap sack she huddles beneath the sheets blinking pictures of the dead cries and cries and cries a hydrant with the cover ripped off I search through my griefs like exact change in a pocket: I missed my train this morning; the bathroom leaked and cracks spilled all over the wall; the coffee truck ran out of chai I count my deaths on one hand, grandmothers,uncles, all candles burned to their core Speaking she says, no one here understands I know, I say, what do you want for dinner?

transit.

Leanne Tory-Murphy

water all around, I built a ship and lay in its' bow, I sought you, took a red-eye flight, ran across a field on a cloudy night, danced wildly at 3am after the floor had cleared I ate when I had to, got too big for this dusty enclosure light came through in spots, moving faintly, an ancient wooden clock, worn inconsistently from touch. jumped a train, through snowy mountain passes, downpours in the tropics, endless fields of wheat, and the container became a mother's shoulder from which to eat the world I became the fold of a dancer's dress in the wind, touched and untouchable the dress a frayed quilt, tattered and bright homeland seen from the sky, cash crops of rusty horseshoes, chipped paint, lilacs in June and the wind. In its’ fields I go, wiry haired and sun-beaten, running so I've got to call the ferrier to change my shoes.

I grasped colored ribbons you used to put in our hair, a tightly woven scarf the yellow of the sea, a kite with no string attached at the end, a red polka dot pantsuit and a button pressing machine there was sand in my teeth but I did not care because I looked at the waves and was not in them and gave praise for the small things for what I had

woman.

Leanne Tory-Murphy

her skin like dry clay soft and gritty presided over by eyes that invite and refine endless and discerning as the desert and its oases her hands slender, chapped mix water with dirt in a pail out back she moves like a dancer erect and at ease, the spine of an old book braids piled atop her head because she likes practical things to be beautiful, too a well-made bed next to an open window a bowl of translucent shells on a wooden table she drinks water and black coffee ingests the world by day chews it with a strong jaw and feeds it to baby birds by night she leaves the work to the wind, grasping a tome as comfortable with her, as her body is on the sofa by the lamp she reads, each word a smooth wet rock she turns over in her mouth

spread out.

Sa Fa

i flow with hoops in my ears moving around sacred circles of long seasons dropping question marks and picking up answers im the hot lemon on your swollen throat the soft openings on rotating sunflower fields showing how you can step in even if you’re used to coloring out the paisley patterns on my threads take me beyond raindrop vision into block printing down holly hills up rolling rivers i teach hands how to pick laughter off laundry lines as my pulse tunes in to grounded jewels seeking sight lips open for soft landing cheeks chasing down light i make homes from hurricanes weaving tents from torn tables and exploded rice leave doors open for fresh faces and braid strong gazes meant to incite i sing to young seeds taking root jump with jaguars chasing juice my feet fertilize ecosystems, birthing words into roots im a thunder nurturer, sparking fire on high moons

dear you.

Sa Fa

how many lovers have spoken your name in mother tongues not know by your ear but felt by your heart? how many many ways have you been called on and cradled? you have always been swimming in tenderness. your birth right in action. love is not from a model, it’s from mother nature. your nature. all these pathways have lead back to You. that touch you are craving is only one version of touch that's been sweeping you forever. when you're clear and bright you blow color into pores, you open and open and open and float. when you walk your being away from light you're only cutting yourself. the seasons of your days are like sisters. they are borne of the same mother. even though they grow different, they touch tears and rumble in laughter in meant to be ways. your words know better than to betray the mystical movement of heart beats/ and meal bells and morning circles that the village in the farm poured into you. reach out again. and again. be the bridge you have dreamed of walking and dancing and twirling upon. be a bridge between your yesterday and your always. your childhood and your child. your panic and your faith. forgive your skin for holding on to sweetness.

it's a fucking golden blessing to be soft stomached. what you don't deeply see today is the countless diamonds studding your waist. those stones shine regardless of how you drape them hide them, apologize for them. this journey is shared. it's a never stopping - always flying bellowing bird that sings to you're not so secret river of divinity. jump into the water ways and you will see all waves are holding you. home.

my mother taught me to breathe.

Mieke D

before the plane took off.

She held her belly – right below the place they cut her open. "Deep," she rumbled as though pretending, an over-acting actor, skillful though uncomfortable, calming me while I am panicking, a dance we've done for a lifetime. “Deep.”

She learned this trick refusing to help her parents sell fish at the county fair.

A hypnotist's tool. I never knew her to need calming. She doesn't dream, she nightmares about tidal waves and keeps my childhood home filled with pictures: Mother melting beneath an endless skirt somewhere in a California desert.

Her long hair, her Polynesian freckles.

Gaugin’s painting of half-naked women somewhere in an Indonesian jungle.

The wood block print: a sea storm in Japan.

The shadow puppets from a place I've never been.

Oma remembers dates. Sometime before the second world war she hides in a pile of luggage, waiting for the bombs to stop so she can flee to Singapore. She will leave for good eventually to twirl

frosting flowers for other people's wedding cakes, to sell fish and fish food, to burn joss in honor of the deceased in a house of strange pictures, marinated meat on soaked wood. Oma, her wrinkles curl around a single burning stick holding satĂŠ without charring on the grill turning, to hold the frosting flower uncurling from the bag she made herself, somewhere in California, then Boston, then her granddaughter's dreams, flying to visit her, holding her belly. “Deep.â€?

there is never enough time.

Mieke D

for sausages in the fridge. This inconsistent city fills me with balloons and kites, sequins in layers like feathers fanning towards the sky, confetti-filled.

The smell of burning meat confronts me at the West Indian Day Parade. I wear sequins in eager reflection while someone brown avoids someone brown with a badge that shimmers like sequins. There is never enough time to communicate with my niece, whose sentences and fairytales fill her head full of hair like, Never enough money / Always in debt Body tired / Body broken, Codependency, Alcoholism, a Circus of Pain / a Party of golden afros, gem finders, burgers, and safety plans topless beaches, neon yoga, blue lips, brown boi butoh, Access to white spaces / Access to brown spaces Limited access to both / Never enough Safe / Affordable / Consistent housing where I can gather eggs out back, pet a cat, and hear the weight of my steps make the stairs move.

Gentrification, like childhood trauma, places a psychological factory / a war game where safe / affordable / consistent housing should be in this city that gives me sausages in the fridge / ice cream at the corner store twenty dollars in my pocket / lookin for a come up an old computer, two paper fans for less than five bucks in Queens, a pendant with a mer-devil pouring water out of a basin on my chest, gifted by a co-worker, brown, who made my invisible yellow life hell because of jealousy and her uncle’s shimmering badge, and using the master’s tools.

There is never enough space for all my tarot cards so I wear one forever on my arm. There is never enough time to teach my niece to use these words in poems or to paint the walls with hair dipped in color while she whips it back and forth like Willow. There is never enough time for childhood.

untitled.

Felicity Scarce

I am the full moon shining through my window, onto my face, so bright I wake myself up and I have brought on summer.

I boil the kettle by looking at it, I grind the coffee beans with my eyes.

In the garden I am chilli and lavender, fruiting and flowering from neglect, hot and soothing.

I put my mug down, leave a ring mark travelling through the whole empty book.

The pages fill from my touch, salty, goosebump honesty to anyone who reads it.

I am the fete, blue velvet leotard, gold adornments and a sequinned ass; handing out poetry like tincture on the street.

Those who need healing, come into my house of dimples, where citrus and rose mingle, ferment, and transform into something sweet and quenching.

Come listen to this voice like rolling gin hitting crystal.

Come see this heart spilt on sleeve like red wine on a lacy silk blouse.

Sleep in the undulating sand of this haven until this moon hits your shore, wakes the compassion in you, shines so warm wildflowers bloom in the desert.

praise.

Felicity Scarce

lovers did shitty things i swallowed these things whole they scratched, like swallowing a tiny chipped ceramic cup made for toasting, celebration, for kin they dug around inside, these shards got lost for a while but now I have re-opened the case like Harriet the Spy and the stabbing pains have lessened. bare legs and boots in winter practice eyeliner in public bare legs anytime, these are the stitches I sew up the wound with i admire shrieking on the street with no shame falling off and getting back on a bicycle with no shame any woman who leaves the house is a heroine. i feel the hard glass and crack of the sea salt grinder against my divining palms as i prepare toasts, starting with tongues & hands, ending with a soft bite of real lemon in the middle, some gold from chipped ceramic cups for celebration, gifts i am praised heartily for by kin.

envy.

Monique Schubert

You blossomed And I remain unchanged Your eyes gained deeper lights You see into generations.

You are somehow now Stronger than you knew.

Your back straight as children climb you Mid-stride, stick their hands in your mouth Mid-sentence, and reach for ninny When thirsty.

We laugh at your Predicament, your boss Is a two year old.

Love overloads us and We all dissolve in laughter On the living room floor.

Sometimes After you’ve gone I open a book Or play a song, I look to where Frida points with her paints, I hear how Billie bends a blue note.

And I know It is the absence That aches and drives Women to create.

re-constructed self-portrait.

Monique Schubert

Where do you keep your Deepest beauty hidden?

Will you let me see If I promise to be kind I won’t laugh or dismiss Your wide horizons.

I won’t complain how Far away the constellations From an unfamiliar vantage point.

I won’t compare the damp shade under the branches of a magnolia tree to A perfect trellis of Astor roses By an idyllic fountain.

If you let me into the garden Of your heart I will take Each sweet breath in awe.

And only speak of how amazing you are.

what you have.

Malaika Aleba

What you have is the sky pulling you forward on your nighttime run, and your face between her thighs on the staircase.

Love is still mysterious and too big but you're growing into it, and in the meantime there's the jar with the organic coconut oil to rub between your breasts, where your heart is.

Facetimes and beer foaming over into laughter.

Food, so much food.

Homemade pierogies and fried cheese on salad, strong legs to carry you forward, strong spirit to surrender into a backbend.

Can't you see life is as beautiful as conversations and bicycles, and eating honey at midnight.

the anxiety poem.

Malaika Aleba

When your mind runs to the darkest places, let it keep running until it reaches dawn and drinks in the sunrise.

You are not too much.

You are only the tip of a single photon in a beam of light, but you shine because in every sun ray there's the sun.

And rough thoughts only help you to grow, like the protective bark on a tree.

Don't undo yourself.

Collage yourself.

Glue together your mind's most beautiful thoughts until you're the kind of picture you want to hang in your favourite room.

Eat the chocolate, and the mousse and the cream.

They say the gut is the second brain, so let your belly think chocolate, cream-pufffilled thoughts.

i’m still here.

Elena Yesner

Lay down, dear. and I’ll show you what helplessness is its your limbs melting its not being able to regulate your body temperature One minute an icebox the next, a furnace its calling when no one comes If I sound angry it is because I am I will yelp and yowl because I can My voice rings because I’m still here And as long as these veins, like bondage, pulse blood I will yelp and yowl as I DAMN WELL PLEASE. Don’t you know I sang far louder than this when I birthed those three beauties?

Want to see pictures of my grandkids?

More pudding please.

I’m on the desert course now.

So sweet.

These sunken eyes have seen more than you ever will.

These trembling hands have carried loads

These feet in green gripped socks, sticking out from the bedclothes like cukes on the vine, they have walked where you never will.

So have your pity, kid.

Drink it down But its really just fear in reverse I know it and so do you Nurse, it’s a bit cold in here, can you turn it down?

Thank you, dear.

august 2006.

Elena Yesner

I shimmied through the crack in the door, meeting with resistance it was him, not budging so stubborn, like always there he was sunbathing under the fluorescents. eyes, twin tunnels in the sea, limbs thin like rebar, mouth like an Iowan covered bridge I wish I’d thought of curling up next to him.

Instead I played Greys Anatomy and lept into action.

He was gone; a prehistoric beast caught in a tar pit I dropped the eggs from their nest and put the whimpering dogs in their cages I burned his trash, donated his irises to science and his books to students, better they have them if they stayed on the shelves, i would have soaked them with salt water till the words ran off the pages.

He wanted to be burned and joked we should turn his ashes into diamonds the bling he never wore turns out human combustion is expensive so his ashes live humbly in my mom’s garden under the peppers, and under a tree in Prospect Park i sometimes climb You see, he turned the lights out long before my eyes had a chance to adjust and it was darker than the Iowa interstate at 1am But now I turn the lights on every day I’ve turned him into sunsets and the smell of clove oil

I listen for him in the rumble of my lovers belly I see his hands in yours I sip him in seltzer on these humid days I hear his gruff wisdom and it jolts me into gratitude.

oh mother, Hannah Dees

I tried so hard to reach her when you came into our lives, I felt it was my job to protect her and my little sister from you, they couldn’t see the monster you are, they couldn’t see the evil inside of you My mother fell for your bullshit, she bought it so easily, she wanted a “family” so badly; there you were with all of your money and charisma; The ground opened up beneath my feet when I tried to warn her and I was met with anger, we moved in with you soon after all I could do to resist was to be silent, I was met with; “Drama Queen” “Oversensitive” “Spoiled” She had turned on me, began to resent me for ruining her fantasy and you, you had entered into my nightmares, a warning I was screaming inside and the adults were telling me to shut the fuck up and be more polite, you filled me, my family, a whole house, just full of gasoline, in the dead of night, you lit a match

nobody ever saw, except for me a midnight smoke blazed through my insides of the life I once had, my happy childhood lightyears away now, You stood on smugly, chuckling to yourself as your attraction to your teenaged stepdaughters was apparent but only to us, you opened a portal to this barren wasteland, forced me to walk through, I became lifeless in order to survive, you erased the colour from my life, I thought I’d walk through this labyrinth you’d constructed for eternity, I crawled out of a burning building on my hands and knees a part of my mom was lost in the flames, Maybe that’s why she decided to go back to him, I used to wonder if you’d kill me or my mom, or if I stopped paying attention, you’d get me to trust you long enough that I’d never tell anyone, I’d listen to Christina Aguilera and watch Enough and dream about my mom leaving you and her getting to be happy, I dreamt of being free Twelve years have past, most of which were spent being told not to trust my gut

I have absolutely nothing to thank you for, thanks to an abuser can be terrifying.

I picture myself at 12, I remember the moments I realized how fucked I was, I remember being doubled over from so much pain, And now, I am shocked to recall that I was just a child.

So I have no thanks for you, who is to be thanked for my survival when I was sure I wouldn’t?

My dreamworld, for affirming he was capable of anything.

My intuition, for telling me not to swallow my gut feeling of convenience for the adults, for making sure I didn’t back down.

My guides, my guides who I hadn’t yet begun to meet, but led me to seek help when I thought I was made of cellophane.

The single adult in my life who took me seriously, who validated my experiences, who truly cared, who saved me.

To cheerleading, for giving my purpose in life when I thought I had none.

I give no thanks to my step dad, I have no reason to do so,

instead I give thanks to myself.

To my guides, to all of the pathways I was led through to come out alive still in his shadow, but alive and loved.

womyn lineage.

Javiera Infante

the womyn of my family have too much heart but not enough fists they've been born into good families, parents who loved them, embraced them and taught them to be good womyn, good wives all these six womyn helping out mom when they found husbands fists were turned on them a thread of abuse followed they had to bow their heads swallow their sorrow sleepless nights holding their children tight uncertain of why the next slap would come tomorrow their empty jars of self-love i've always wondered if strength was inherited if fear & meekness could be passed down because then they had daughters but they'd lost too much of themselves trying to protect others they couldn't guide us the girls of my generation have set themselves to finding the broken pieces our mothers left us with

we’ve tried to house the orphaned & neglected & abused girls they carry in a somber corner of their hearts scattered around with shatters & shards we learned to not give up on ourselves we learned to know who we were before giving away to someone else we are still breaking that cycle we learn as we go we carry us & and them.

hauntings.

Javiera Infante

I fell in love with him with all the parts of me I had left inside me, which wasn’t much because they were broken, half way there, painfully wrapped in all my other disappointments.

He didn’t mean to be dipped in the shallowest and most abandoned waters of my soul, but he went ahead, maybe he had nothing to lose.

I let him in, I let him wreck me. He gave me things that never made up for the ones he took from me.

I dug myself a hole in my bed and under gray covers I tried to hide away. Blood gushing kinda pain…immense…profound…a deep forgotten well. I thought he’d discovered my rivers and streams, but when he left me I found an ocean of sorrow, no lifesaver in sight. I swam, and swam, gasping for air, I wanted to breathe again so bad, I wanted to find dry land. My arms were tired of searching. But I learned that the searching never ends, it’s always tugging like a hungry toddler, I learned to deal with it. In this ocean I survived a storm, I developed muscles that helped me swim faster, that helped me find rhythm in the pain. And I sang a song for me, a song that had been in me long before I ever swam. When I sang it, it rattled chains inside me, woke up the sleeping beauty with the ever gentle fingers that taught me how to love me. Her arms held me, it was OK to cry in her embrace.

It took a long time to unsoak myself. I gave up trying to forget him.

His shadow follows me still, and I am done pushing him away. There are rays of sun that sip through when I can sit with his shadow at the table, he’s only a reflection. I become a ray of light myself, my eyes begin to twinkle again, a horizon full and vast, and I am lighter, too.

He was my purging mistake, the slight crack of the door half-way open, the shatters that cut me open and clean. I drop slowly on a cloud and rest in my dawn.

true north.

Stacey Engels

Here is my prayer: that poetry can break through asphalt. That my words will pull nourishment from thin air, epiphyte that I am. That my roots may find me, even in dreams.

Who were we, before The Great Depression and the Wars, before the Prairies, the Rockies, the pails full of raspberries and blackberries for jam and pie that left me stained and scratched and more victorious than any perfect mark on an exam?

Who were we before the uncles and cousins shot down, the crippled grandfather who tatted lace, his fingers speaking silently, spinning beauty out from inside himself, no matter how he looked on the outside, skeletal and blanket-covered in a wheelchair that scared his only son, my father?

Who were those Norwegians, those Germans, those Irish, English, Scots, those people hungry for land, space, homes,

roots What is a myth, what is a joke? Was the Irish forebear really a horse thief escaping hanging, was Grosmuter really locked in the woodshed on full moons?

Who were we under the black and white photos, before the teacups and God Save The Queen, before CP Rail, wheat fields, cowboys, homemade bread and the cream drunk off the top of the glass-bottled quarts of milk delivered by horse-drawn wagon?

Before PTSD-known-asshellshock, before good-girlsdon't-talk-about-those-things, before the teenaged boy robbed of a plan when the war ended before he could enlist?

Poem, give me roots. Give me dreams. Plant crops in the dustbowl of my shallow memory. Give me legs. Drill through the thick ice of not-knowing and wait with me for the mythical talking fish that will teach me who we were.

gold and yellow.

Teshale Nuer

My god you are gorgeous, that smile, the way your eyes crease to let out just a sliver of sparkleyou are magnetic how did you get that flowy skirt that feasts upon your feet? those gold and silver bangles that tinkle whenever you speak? the way you fiddle with your necklace when you talk makes me want to hold your hand, placed gently in your back pockets when you look down and half away, your freckles always seem to know exactly what to say. you love so deep, blood stains your nails. hold your cat way too tightly, bee keep and dance. how you glide, gracefully up silk and aimlessly down concrete streets, my god you are beautiful. tiny spoons of ice cream and gladiator feet. you raise chickens like it's normal, hold children when they're in pain. how did you get so strong and so very very brave? you have a golden heart that keeps you from dulling, a self interest that keeps your light feet going. you belong so wholly to yourself your thoughtfulness undoes me, complaints so few and far between.

Conversations end always with 'I love you' , easily, carelessly, honestly. have I told you today, that you are beautiful? carefree and casually damaged, you are perfect.

The wrinkles on your nose and quickness of your step proclaim to the world constantly Good things are happening to me today', and you believe it. Even when you're crying, you face the sunlight, let it warm you, don't shrink away from the growing pains that shine light on your insecurities-

and erase them.

Be easy in the that warmth, let rivers lap against your feet, sunlight spill through those trees, those fish nibble at your knees. the bend of a willow branch becomes you, the green of a moss, trampled but unharmed under feet, becomes you. and my god aren't youbecoming.

blue and white.

Teshale Nuer

squid ink sky with streetlight stars, we held hands hard when you met me. stole my number, secreted it into your cave, enraptured. there are still shoes missing from flightless feet that skates, don’t need. you were like gliding underwater. entering a magic space, i was brave enough to breathe, wore your mermaid skin amazed at just how well the scales fit me. every hair on my head sank drunk on still and silent water. brackish skin baby, arms folded to body like newborn bat wings, translucent elbows and too many arms, lanugo'd hands with spindly fingers. your body roared from ache of taking up too much space. on asphalt carpets that mimicked skies, that mouth shaped loom fashioned me a tapestry bathed in ethanol and fringed with self-pity.

But my wet skin was looking for a towel, so hunny, I made you a tailor. drunk-you kissed hard and loved steady, deaf to words like ‘no’ and ‘I'm just not ready’, 3am beach trips to bathe hot heads in sober waters, so obsessed with rescuing this shipwreck liferaft hands swore that they could save you.

Seashell palms caressed my face while whiskey whispers ‘We’ll get through this, we’ll get through this’. your body tetrising to mine so perfect my knees lost purpose, hands gripped the ground hard to keep from falling, to keep from floating toward the sky. brackish skin baby, licking salt from your wounds,

you have never been more beautiful than when you let me go from you. anchors tangled in each other, guest stars on our own shows.

You grow you star trees and I’ll grow gardens, learn the ways making light.

Tend to flowers and fruiting vines with the dirt beneath my nails you never liked, watch lavender grow steadily from deep darkness of compost piles.