The cat has learned how to open the closet door

Later, he brings me tea. He has boiled water on the stove and brewed the mixture that I make for myself any morning that the pot is already clean and I do not need to wash it by hand: half dandelion root, half twig tea. He wants me to know that he cares.


Here is what I think but will not say: I do not--cannot--drink twig tea at night. It contains caffeine, and if I drink it now I will not sleep. I am so sensitive.



After he showers he wants me to tell him that everything is okay. He needs to know where we stand.



The mug of tea sits on the bedside table beside me, growing cold.


I don't think there's anything I could say that would make you understand.

Everything was going so well, and then it wasn't

Everything was going so well, and then it wasn't.

We put on our coats and drove to dinner. We ordered iced tea instead of liquor and made nice conversation. The manager took a liking to us and we got two burgers for the price of one.

Afterward we returned to the apartment and I watered the mums on the front steps. Then, as often happens, I felt something.

As usual, this is where the trouble began.

I wanted him to understand but he did not.

I thought, please stop telling me how to feel. And then, please stop yelling. And then, can't you see that I am hurting and I need you to understand? I am scared. I need you to be tender toward me.

He is not a mind reader.

I, apparently, have a tendency to lash out when I'm upset.


I was not trying to lash out. I was just upset. 

There is a difference but I cannot make you see it.




At first I think, use your words, June.

But he is not interested in my words. He pounds the bed and demands I pay attention. I have hurt him and this will not stand. If he tells me I shouldn't worry, then why haven't I stopped worrying. To continue feeling when he has told me not to is an affront to his own comfort. I need to feel better because he has feelings that need tending. I have hurt him.


I put my hand over my eyes because I am trying to get away from this place where I am not understood and he doesn't want to.

Of course, this makes him madder. He is talking at my body, and I can hear him, but I am only two centimeters tall and I am quietly sneaking away through the contours of my mind. If I tread softly enough, and with my hand over my eyes, he won't even notice that I'm gone. Or he will--and he does--and this makes him angry. I slip out of my shoes and hold them by the laces with my fingers and I continue tip-toeing. He knows that I am gone but he does not know where. He does not know how small I am, how I am able to slip soft-footed through the contours of my brain, losing myself in a maze that he cannot see and he cannot follow. I know exactly where I am going. This path is well traveled, but I leave no marks behind. No telltale birdseed or beating hearts. I will come back, later, and I will say that everything is fine.


 

breath and burning

Still. I am dancing on the rug in my parents' living room. I am remembering telling that joke and then tapping the marimba lumina while the crowd looked on and beside me he laughed and laughed. I am recalling haggling over donuts, talking to an introvert, padding through camp in my bare feet, peeing in the shower for the first time in my life, losing my claim to the longest road, hauling armloads of camp gear from the dusty lots to our tents on the hill, standing in the grass with the wind whipping around my thighs. I am remembering how powerful I am.

When I decided I was going to feel it all, I meant it.

In search of moose

I want to beg and plead but I will not.


My name is June I'm so sorry. My name is June I wanted to wait. I haven't told anyone but I've been in a very bad way.



I make lists:

socks
underwear
yogurt
cereal
chapstick
greens





When the song I liked even less than the other songs came on I stepped into the grass and looked up at the stars.

300

That scratch-off was a dud. I can't fucking believe it.



I am eating gluten-free crackers on the couch.


On my lap, Wilson is sleeping.



Do you like literature do you like words do you?

In his sweater and with his hair flopping across his eyes like that I was reminded of my dad.



We are trying to make it exactly like from the menu. I am in withdrawal. I read from the online description, trailing him in the grocery store. Coconut milk, broccoli, bamboo shoots, red bell pepper, carrots, onion, basil leaves, cauliflower.

When we get home, we realize we've forgotten the bamboo shoots.




I am hoping it will taste good anyway.









I am reading a story about a woman whose partner drowned while rescuing their three-year-old son from the ocean. When I say "reading," I mean the word loosely. I keep reading only the first few pages, up until the point when her child starts to slip under, knowing what's coming, and so sucking back, turning my eyes from the page, putting the book down and telling myself I'll come back to it--and when I do, I retreat again, like a wave apprehensively lapping at the edge of the shore.




I am really excited to look at the ocean with you.




We are listening to Stephen Malkmus. He puts the food on to cook. I steal a sip of his vodka and coke. It smells really, really good in here.

"Dr. Gosch says secrets are unhealthy"*

I cannot stay off my bike. Already today I have gone for an hour-long walk and done an hour of vinyasa. Still I take to the paths at sunset. A few miles down the rural road I remember that biker who was chased by mountain lions not three weeks back. Nothing to do but keep pedaling home. On my way I pass two mule deer grazing in a horse pasture, one of them with the largest set of antlers I've ever seen.




Dear kestrel I am sorry that our worlds converged at the exact moment you were seizing a grasshopper in your talons for a late-night snack. My tire nearly collided with your small, brown body and in navigating out of a collision you sadly dropped your catch. I was so happy to see you but so sorry to have prolonged your hunt.


The grasshoppers are shedding their casings, or mating with caterpillars, or straddling slugs. Whatever the change, they look different as I approach them on the roadside; they are not so quick to hop away.



That man is poison I see him and I know it.



That cat couldn't decide what it wanted. It cried and cried for attention, then swung its neck away as I reached out to say hello.


I can relate. 



Discernment is.



We sure do have a lot of memories together. All those places we've lived and the fights we've had. All that choosing to keep going.


I haven't seen my friends in so long.  



In the land of organicville they make ketchup from agave. In the land of agave the bouncers make sexist comments while I stand beside them, waiting for them to stamp my hand.



I like my cheap wine with seltzer and frozen blueberries, please. I sure could use a back rub.



If what you see is beautiful then I too will try to see beautiful. Anything you can imagine I can imagine brighter.

I didn't even realize how tightly I'd clutched my hand to my chest. I am working hard to relax my fingers. Please know how hard I am working.



I am a brave person. I am proud of myself for being brave.



*from "We Are Called to Rise" by Laura McBride

wings

It's the strangest thing. These days I'm not quite so repulsed by butterflies. Sometimes, I even catch myself thrilling to see them.

Meanwhile, I've covered a wall in the kitchen with Audobon renderings of no less than twelve different species of birds.