I like the naturopath.

Little ice-melt pebbles crunch under our boots as we trace her daily path through the hospital doors. There’s a little “cover your cough” stand with sanitizer and paper masks. She takes a mask and stretches it over her head, two boney manicured hands, ring finger diamonds sparkling. The taunt white elastic band presses onto the delicate skin of the scar on her neck. We pass a gorgeous photograph of a bear cub playing with a moose antler on a river bank, a white porcelain Mary, and a chapel. The chapel intrigues me. The chapel bothers me, as if to say, you’re going to need to start praying.

We sit down with the naturopath in his office. He is a handsome Jewish man who looks you directly in the eyes when he speaks. My first impression was that he was too hurried. She mentions a GI tube consult she’s going to later. He explains the ridges of the GI system, what chemo/radiation can do to it, and why it’s better to eat orally rather than through a feeding tube. Use it or loose it. Out the huge windows of his office is a wide view of scratchy black trees clinging to the white sky and fogged mountains. I wonder what makes things grow upward, what the trees reach for, what is beyond. It’s a good distraction from listening to my mother talk about loosing her sense of taste, hair and will to eat. He tells me to feed her lots of  Indian food, tumeric. He turns to her, “Do you like the taste of ginger?” He asks her about her skin, explains melatonin with drawings on scrap paper. She shows him all of the new freckles showing up on her neck and face. I think it’s the cutest fucking thing ever and it makes me want to jump out of my seat and hug her. I think about tattooing them on me. I think about the matching freckle we’ve always had on our left hands just below the thumb.

As the naturopath wraps up the appointment he tells me to start stealing Queezy Pops for her from the radiation desk. I decide I like him.

pin holes into the sky, part 2.

give me one of your freckles
we’ll trade a tiny part of ourselves
I’ll do you and you do me
constellations of love over our bodies

Honey Bucket’s hands move just like Elena’s
and I remember warm nights
sleeping exausted
from talking and dancing and kissing

I’m pretty sure the girl at the counter at Middle Way
is something like eighteen years old
but she has a septum piercing, moustache and this demure style about her
all of which turns me into a fumbling dork when I order from her
especially today when she complimented my glasses

I told Meg I wasn’t fit to carry an anchor on my finger
but that’s not entirely true
I was born in a fishingtown
I know the quiet rocking of boats
and otters in the harbor
I know slippery seaweed dried on rocks
and red and purple starfish

if we are different people with each lover
if they each bring out varied qualities in us
and we relate to them in diverse ways
if in every relationship we are able to express unique parts of ourselves
and learn varying lessons each time we connect
then how on Earth does one go about considering
committing to a monogamous romantic relationship for the rest of their lives?

I can’t stand the way you chew your food
but I liked watching your fingers
wrapping thread around the needles
your teeth helping you hands make the knots
and the blunt side of the needle gently parting your moustache

the reason I call myself a queer dyke
has nothing to do with physical attraction
and everything to do with socialization and social construction
so stop fucking calling me a lesbian
and fuck me

so good, I thought I started my period

taking the wide curves in the dark
sliding around and through
the gorgeous monochromes of winter
and text and texture
I think
it’s the space between the notes
that music happens
when my housemates are out
that’s when I can feel
everything between my fingers
that’s when I can play it out slow
over and over and over again
that’s when I find myself
it’s the space between the notes
where the sex is

I told Emily that
when I came lastnight
it was so good
that I thought I started my period

egan saves christmas

Things with Friend had deflated a few days into the trip, with our plans to go to Forks, WA cancelled even sooner. Little Bird was upset that I was sleeping with her and other people at the same time and had asked me to find another place to stay. So I was laying on the big couch at Egan’s house fussing with my waistband. Cramping and singing quietly along to an old Tori Amos VHS , the sugar skulls on the mantle my audience. I felt like my guts were going to fall out, but I was happy. I was cradling a really really stong cup of coffee from the french press,watching the flecks of almond and coffee grounds swirling all together and knowing that the caffine might actually be making me feel worse.  I love that Tori looks like she’s getting off when she sings. She was singing about roses and I thought about all the roses in Portland, now dead wet rolled up brown pieces of paper. I thought of the gigantic dead sunflower stalks across the street with their squishy white button tops. Everyone talks shit about the gloomy, rainy Portland winters, but I love it. I thought about how I was to return home in a few days and how nothing on this trip had gone as planned. ”You are so cute right now”, Egan said as he came into the living room. I thought he was talking to the cat sleeping on a puzzle. “Just sitting here bleeding and watching Tori…” I smiled and thought yeah, this is exactly where I need to be right now.

Later, I felt better and I rode the bus down to the Hollywood district to the dog daycare I used to work at. My ex co-worker had arranged to sneak me in to see some of my old dog friends. There he was, Quincy, my four year old vizsla boyfriend. He remembered me and so did all the others. It was an amazing feeling to be back with those dogs I had cared about so much.

I left the daycare with a spring in my step and sang out loud walking on the overpass on my way to meet Egan. We met outside Grand Central and he handed me half a grilled cheese because he thought I might be hungry. I thought I might marry him. We caught the MAX downtown and sat so that everything rushed by backwards. Pioneer square looked like a movie, all of the lights and people rushing around christmas shopping . We talked about Aden and love and sex and gender and the past and the future. Egan is my favorite Leo of all time and every time we spend time together I am reminded of how amazing he truly is.

We stopped by Jackpot where he bought a special Efterklang record he was really excited about. After some time at Powells we headed to the bus and were stopped by an old friend from Anchorage who called to us out of the fancy bar she worked at in SW. She invited us in and gave us beer. We gave each other the cliff notes of our life and showed off new tattoos. ”This is why I love Portland. Portland just gave us free beer!” I shouted as Egan and I ran to catch the bus.

Over the next two days we watched the Efterklang DVD that came with the record at least three times and I became a fan. I finished the scarf I was knitting for Friend that I had put so much energy into, like a metaphor. And I gave it to Egan as a token of my appreciation for saving my vacation with all the laughter and love.

On Christmas Eve Elena came over and watched Queen of the Damned with me. I gave them a speculum I had stolen from the hospital and we talked about love, relationships, abuse, celibacy and the emotional space we’ve had between us this past year.

On Christmas day I packed up my things, ate too much great food, and laughed with good people. As Egan drove me to the airport all I could think over and over was

How can I leave you? HOW CAN I LEAVE YOU?

pin holes into the sky

here there’s a certain kind of light just at dusk
blue stacked on white stacked on pink
the bare trees reach backlit black, upward

I don’t know what to say

a tattoo is made up of hundreds of single needle pricks
we’ve been going to fast
so we sit on the dirty carpet and poke intentionally
into each other
each point is an action
a map
I think of the one on my knee
jess you can
jess you are

in the black sky out the window
I watched the same star all the way back to Alaska
head full and heart heavy
knowing I’d forget the taste of Aden’s mouth
knowing I’d forget the clear color of the sky
what were you like as a kid?
did you get into trouble?
were you shy?

Alex said
that hummingbird and elephant hearts beat
the same number of times their whole lives
and that’s what relationships are like
is it true?
we all have a finite number of chances?

I told Beautiful she was the kind of girl I’d drop anything for
no matter where or who I was with
but I didn’t kiss her in the cabin in the woods underneath a stranger’s quilts
even though I wanted to
I remember vowing to become a musician just to sing a song for her

the people we leave our back doors unlocked for
planning trips and scheduling intimacy
climbing through each other’s windows
the friends we love, the friends we fuck
the love letters we’re writing behind our eyes when we talk
over coffee, over beers
great loves and perfect moments
slipping through our fingers and up into the sky
time and chance and distance
and sometimes working, sometimes not

I want your

cactus
spiral
f note
sunflowers
blue stars
four squares
puzzle pieces
crass
catfish
black spruce
anchor
cupcake
paw print
buoys
roses
airplane
black bird
heart
sinchi warmi
bambi
highbush cranberry
ship
clock
totoro
don’t worry
diamond
imaginary moon phases
stars
stars
stars

I’ve never told you that I love you
I told you too soon
I tell you all the time
I don’t tell you enough

new years eve

Survived a turbulent (productive) therapy session.

Appreciated the hella fat glowing moon.

Met four gorgeous and amazing queer women on the dance floor.

Did not drink.

Wore really gaudy earrings. And crimped hair.

Laughed so hard I cried.

Gained a new sense of hope.

Fell asleep while masturbating, laughing exausted, exclaiming:

I found the dykes!

a version of home

What did it feel like?

It was more than physical pleasure, and different than regular penetration. I felt out of my body and I felt more in my body than I ever have before. I thought about birth, death, coming. But I didn’t even want to come, I just didn’t want it to end. The movement, the pushing, the twisting, the wetness of the lube on your hands. A version of home. I trusted you completely, but I was still a little scared. “Almost” you told me later looking at your hands.

It wasn’t our first time, but it was our first time face to face. I thought about how nice my First Time might have been if it had been with you.

Your nose ring kept falling out and you let me ride you on top. It felt amazing to hold you so close to me. Your body hard and soft at once. I was reminded of how nice it can be to fuck your friends. We kissed hard and soft. You pinned me back and pulled me back into your arms, I felt drunk. You bit my shoulder too hard, but I secretly liked the mark it left. We fucked with the lights on and I noticed scars, tattoos I hadn’t seen before. You made faces you hadn’t shown me before. Pressing up against you in the secret attic, I didn’t tell you about a forgotten crush rekindling inside me. You seemed to have enough on your plate.

In the morning you made us coffee and waffles and we talked about family and racism and cultural appropriation and cats and coming out. Outside it was dreary and drippy and dark, but I felt hopeful despite it. You made me feel sexy and respected and interesting. I walked home with music and noticed buildings and windows I hadn’t before.

On Christmas day there was bright sun above the trees outside the window of the empty bus. I watched the store fronts and people pass as I rode through parts of Portland I’d never really been through before. Hiking up my sparkly tights walking from the bus stop, I thought about holding your hand. I fantasized about you riding up on your bike as I clapped my boots down Interstate. You’d flash me that intoxicating smile and I’d think about how good you look in eyeliner. And you’d be thinking what I’m thinking: that I’m leaving today and it’s our last chance to make out. And you’d just kiss me right there and we’d laugh all the way to the party.

brunch

I went to a birthday party today over brunch. A vegan and gluten-free feast. Some of the people I knew, and some of them not. I was anxious because I hate small talk, it makes me so uncomfortable. I feel like strangers ask me questions just to hear themselves talk. I feel boring when I tell people what I do and I feel stupid when I tell them that I’m not in school because I can’t afford it right now. I glued myself to Kevin and Honey Bucket until they had to leave and I mostly had to fend for myself. I was anxious because the house was very fancy. Lots of art and rugs. Alaskana. 

I went to the sitting room to put my card with the others and caught sight of the view out of the large windows. I pressed my forhead against the glass. The freezing Kenai Peninsula. It resembled the bluffs in Portland in some strange way. The window fogged with my breath. I thought of my mother. I remembered I was not in a place where it was appropriate to cry. I wondered if the tree I was looking at was a black spruce. I wondered about the foot prints in the snow. I tried to picture where I was oriented on a map. I drew a heart in the condensation and then wondered if I shouldn’t have.

Back in the kitchen and breakfast nook I submitted to the dreaded small talk and it wasn’t that bad. Emiline showed up, my savior. We sunk into a big love seat and talked about teeth and jokes past lovers made at the expense of our sensitivities. We talked about Boycations and Man Rambles and male nudity in film. We talked about our health and highschool and the journeys we made in college, physically and emotionally.

Matthew and Sarah played the banjo and accordian on the fireplace. Sarah looks like Portland, I thought. Thin flannel, thick rimmed glasses, greasy boyish haircut. She may be the only one in all of Anchorage. It occurred to me that this brunch, this vegan brunch with young people playing covers of Hurray for the Riff Raff, the beards, the flannel, the fact that almost half of the people there were queer, this might be the best of what is here. If this is all there is, I thought, at least I have found it.

Later some of the guests left, some helped clean up. I watched the lady of the house scrape a bowl full of left over cream cheese and a whole stick of left over butter into the garbage disposal. I talked to one of the lingering guests about whether or not God has lips, or any erogenous zones for that matter. We talked about wanting to visit villages but not wanting to live there. I showed him my leg tattoos. I told him about my grandfather’s memorial and it seemed like maybe his eyes got wet for some secret reason. I felt attracted to him. I made up a rule that it was ok to get a crush on someone who was a gender different from ones you normally go for if it was over the holidays.

The birthday girl opened her gifts and cards. I gave her a patch with a bike on it, a tube of glitter glue and a pin that says “I <3 female orgasm”. Her parents gave her remote start for her car and $1000. I started to realize this friend of mine came from a  class background much different than mine. I hadn’t thought much about her background before. I thought about what I could do with $1000. 

My tires spun in the deep snow as I maneuvered out of the suburban winter hideaway. I passed my old elementary school. Everything looked so different. All the trees cut and a shopping center I didn’t even know existed. I put on that Des Ark CD I’ve been trying to take a break from so I won’t stop liking it from listening too much. I sang along and my voice sounded raspy and I liked it. I thought about my Holiday Crush. I thought about hating feeling stuck up here. I started to get anxious about What I’m Doing With My Life and The Next Step. But then I thought about my mom, and felt an unfamiliar a sense of calm. I realized that right now I’m exactly where I need to be.

a love poem

I stand in the natural food section looking at chocolate. I don’t really know anything about chocolate, but I’m trying to find something made from cocoa that isn’t oppressing someone somewhere. But that’s not even what I care about. Just a thought to distract me from why I am buying chocolate  at all. The one with the raspberries says it has a “love poem” inside and I decide that it’s appropriate. “Give it to someone you love..” it says.

I woke up this morning and it wasn’t a dream that faded like it should have been. My head hurt, dehydrated I suppose.

My aunt says cats are supposed know where people’s tumors are. Mom says Buddhi’s been sleeping on her neck.

I brought her what I thought could help. A big round seed and a pine cone from my house in the Brooklyn neighborhood. A feather and a bit of iridescent shell from the beach, sage Jodie gathered when she was in the desert. She said I could smudge her and I thought that was cute. I fought back tears as she held the sage to her nose. 

I told her not to start treatment over christmas. Wait a week I said, it’s just one week.

We have the same hands. Her soft perfect warm neck. I don’t want to have to wonder how much more time I have with her. I don’t want them to put that toxic shit in her blood. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Kevin got me a travel coffee mug from the thrift store and Emiline has been feeding and watching movies with me.

I’ve had this headache for three days straight. I guess I haven’t been drinking enough water to replace what I’ve been crying out. No matter where my mind circles and races, it comes to the same conclusion. And I am angry and helpless.

Lindsey stood beside me sitting at the kitchen table. Smashed my face into her new puffy jacket with Pepper in her other arm. Her boney hip and belt buckle dug into my shoulder as I sobbed. She said she felt nauseous.

I saw Jodie walking down Spenard in a skirt and no gloves, carrying her sewing machine. I stopped to see if she needed a ride, but the sew ‘n vac was only a block away. She took me into her arms like she always does. I looked into her loving eyes but I couldn’t tell her.

It snowed lastnight. Soft and quiet. It’s snowed so infrequently this winter that each time feels like the first time.

trans day of remembrance prayer

Trans and genderqueer folks are an irreplaceable part of our communities. Those individuals we seek to honor tonight, who have had their lives taken from them, teach us how far we are from goals of living in an environment where personal safety is not dependent on one’s gender identity. We make progress when we open our hearts and listen. Tonight we are opening our hearts. I am so thankful that we have the ability and agency to do so. In the face of these unspeakable truths, truths that must be spoken, we must do our best to understand and love one another.

winter is taming me

Snow is clear. But on days like this it washes out everything beyond the block you’re on and I am suddenly content that there is nothing more than this.

I like it when I go to the yarn store and the yarn ladies follow me around asking if they can help me every five minutes like I am going to run out with arm loads of wool blends under my jacket.

I like that my boss is out of town for the next few weeks and I can knit all day at work without fear of being caught.

I like it when my friend George’s accent changes depending on if he’s out with friends or working at his father’s taco cart.

I like my secret plan to steal his girlfriend and make her gay even though it’s not very nice of me.

I like my dog’s bored sighs that fog the window she gazes out of when we run errands.

I like that I am plagued by this wild inspiration that only seems to rush around inside of me while I’m driving so I have to scratch frantic notes or I’ll forget it all. And why is it that my memory lets certain things slip but others I remember so vividly? Like that time I was fucking Little Bird and a cut was stinging on my hand or Friend’s mouth on my palm.

I liked discovering the Womyn’s Dance downtown. I remember thinking that I should go every month and then hearing that the next one wasn’t until April of next year.

I like it when my therapist asks me why I have to go all the way to Fairbanks in order to teach myself to play music and I have to sheepishly admit that maybe it has something to do with my crush on Friend.

I like that I frantically tried to write really intense poems about my abusive ex trying to publicly embarrass me last weekend. But now I am content with these few lines here.

I like this tiny handmade book that Kevin found on the ground that goes like this:

5. Bat’s are more interesting than spiders.
9. Bats are the most useful to farmers.
1. Seeing a bat is a lucky sign.
13. Bats look funny hanging upside down.
7. A bat would make a fun pet.
17. Bat caves are spooky.
16. Bats should live far away from people.
8. Bats are ugly.

The snow flurries on the road make me feel like I am home. The wind pushes at the car and the lanes have disappeared but I am calm and handle the road like no time has passed at all.

friends become our chosen family

My mother had a little wooden plaque that hung in kitchen windows and hallways wherever we lived that said this: Friends Become Our Chosen Family.

Some of us don’t know what family means in that Hallmark sort of way. Some of us don’t know what it means to have fathers. Some of us are distanced from our families by religion or beliefs or space or time or death or abuse.

We want so badly to comfort each other in the face of such challenges. And we do, even though sometimes we don’t know how. Sometimes we say the really bad wrong thing at the wrong time. But we know we mean well. We forgive each other and we work on our shit. Because we know the power of communication and messy love is what saves us. We loan each other spare parts to build patch-work Macgyver kinda shit out of our hearts. We know how one another really feels about the world. And when we are apart we send each other hope in the mail.

A family’s function is to promote survival. Together we are surviving. And even though we don’t always feel it all the time, we are thriving.

we have to believe

Sometimes my heart aches. On the highway facing the Chugachs, headed to my mother’s house. I know that just beyond that range is the road that leads South; I could keep driving. Pass the last exit at the edge of town, and when the car dies along the way I will take what I can carry. Wrap myself up, leash the dog. We’ll stow away in anything mobile and race Winter down the Alcan, all the way to Oregon. But I sit, stay. Because I know that somewhere in cyberspace there’s a ticket with my name on it. A vacation, a christmas gift to myself, to get me through ’til Spring. I know I’ll make it back there permanent some other day.

My little brother and I only see each other in passing, crossing paths doing laundry at our mother’s house. I wish we were closer. He thinks I’m a man-hater and an alcoholic. And I get it. He’s thinking of seventeen year old me: self-destructive, never home, perpetually drunk, moving out at sixteen. He felt abandoned -like he felt when our parents split up. I hate that I made him feel that way. I hope someday we can mend those lines of communication and he can forgive me for being a bad older sister and I can forgive him for writing me off.

Lastnight I was climbing the stairs of my long driveway in the dark. I heard a high-pitched squeaking from above. Looked up to see a nest in the twisted naked branches. Baby birds? My roommate says it’s impossible this time of year and told me to get a flashlight and a ladder. But I didn’t want the answer.

Today, clapping my boots on the way to the van, I spilled my coffee. Ravens were dancing on the tops of other cars, playing and laughing with their rolling, throaty calls. Those birds are so fucking big up close! I know it’s tired for girls to speak about the beauty and mysticality of birds. But I swear ravens are my spirit animal. Picking through the trash and joking and playing all day long, loud and dressed in black.

I’m just here. I’m just up here simple, boring and daydreaming all the time. And there’s nothing else to do, because we have to believe in something.

sunday prayer

I go to where the ocean meets the mud and sand
this is me I think
I am like the water lapping up against Anchorage
but the tide doesn’t assign value to how far and onto which shore it breaks
it just flows and I want to be content to be pulled by the moon

west, the Alaska range glowed brilliantly across the water
more clear than I have ever seen it before
Sleeping Lady, dusty shoulders deep in shadow
east, the Chugachs were skirted with low snow clouds
approaching that range, watching it rise up before you
I swear, it’s like praying
today the earth is showing me something like god

everything beautiful in the world is survival
the lion’s mane is there only to protect her neck
we must build whole entire lives on the bare threads of the past
melt down all that fucked up shit and turn it into infinite love
next weekend my ex-boyfriend is coming to town
and he has agreed to help me pick out a knife

the tide does not assign value to the shore on which it breaks
and I know that the most radical thing I can do is love myself
even in the face of all these undesirable experiences from my past

north

I would need a piano, a banjo, a guitar. Something to keep my voice company. Some blanket with which to wrap your bad poetry.
We’d mimic the rabbit coats with layers and layers. Wood smoke over wools over silks over skin.
On dog trails gusts through snow drifts would call out hymns like last breaths. And I bet your breath is gorgeous, an aurora, when spread out over frigid and crystal edged window panes.
I’d promise to mend all the holes. Stitch every last tiny tear.
And with this tougher northern skin, wipe every tear.

midwesterner

that sweet syncopated piano gets me every time
lying in your summer bed
dreaming about snow
dreams of being truly happy
even if only for a moment
rolling, tossing, warm in blankets
smiling whole face
with eyes
you would just say yes to everything
dancing on top of me
you are the prettiest

gripping your ungloved hand tight
following you through the snow
falling through the snow
we didn’t need the whiskey to be drunk