train to vancouver

drizzle grey spring green punctuated by
scotch broom and the train whistle
we pass mountains of blackberry
over the swollen columbia river


i started crying when i realized a decade has passed
since today
when you and i rode trains in italy
walked miles of cobblestones the night of your birthday
tomorrow you are 10 years older
one third of your life completed since our last adventures


i miss you deeply
this train rolling and bringing forth memories of your face
round with too much pasta
glowing with enjoyment
sharing the country you'd been discovering 
for six months prior to our arrival


© e. e. stanley 5/31/2011, for b.a.s.

babies. a consolation prize

again we come back to the body
the pungent scent of daphne sneaking out like some coda to this evening
from between pages where i pressed it weeks ago
tonight it is my body that i'm called to consider
my habitation my identity the cultural markers which reinforce and
confound my own experience of that strange sack of ectoplasm
drag for our spirit
(note to self - re-read Vonnegut story about being amphibious)

the waiter tonight gave us all babies
a consolation prize for having come up empty handed after the king cake massacre
as we savored bits of hazelnut toffee and chicory ice cream
we talked about breast and babies and careers and straight couples
i thought about what it is to me to be a woman
mother
though that road may be un-passable someday i tried to follow it
not just as a function of my sense of womanhood but as a desired state of being
now - three years after my divorce from the man and lover i married 
solely for the premise of creating a family together someday
nearly four years into a partnership with house and dog and life insurance
with a person committed to remaining child free -
i see that window may not be open when i finally find myself
ready to climb through

then i thought... breasts.
a functional attribute of mothering
while i am grateful for the unlikelihood that i should have to face breast cancer -
not one of the cancer threats, it seems, for my people -
i imagine what the implications of that might be
would i choose radical double mastectomy?
reconstruct with plastic bags of ocean sloshing on my chest?
my relationship to my breasts remains contentious
i would love them more if they were detachable
when dallas said "nice tits", as i changed between numbers at a performance, i told him that 
"would that they were detachable..."
"why?" he asked in disbelief 
and my reply, without much consideration - "they don't always go with the outfit."
so what would i be without them
more my father's daughter slim hips strong jaw and most myself when i remain ambiguous
my breasts are the buoy of my claim to womanhood
alongside my bleeding cunt they are the lifeline to recognition and 
the betrayal against my lithe un-gendered question mark

the mark that fits my body beautifully
the big round head
flamboyant gesture swooping back to center
narrow hips and slight concave where others might flaunt convex
then the punctum
secret small center my clit hidden tiny 
in comparison to every other part of my symbology
that miniscule convention of nerve endings and fragile skin
cannot announce my femininity
though it is strikingly feminine
it bears witness quietly while my cunt builds up walls and washes them away
my womb often heavy with that task on the days
i am most consistently referred to as "sir"
aching tits happy and bleeding
as the public makes at least polite reference to
the puzzle of me
the man who feel to earth
my mother's and grandmothers' first girl
the first child, period, of the two eldest children
beautiful healthy strong the observer
soaking up the wonder of this life

so what is it that makes me say woman female mama daughter tia
when i am so happily known as mr. e
it's the swing of my hips, the fullness of my lips,
the shine of my hair and when you touch me... just there
it's how i can open to take all of this in without breaking
it's the way i love and create and destroy
in my willingness and persistence in attending to all three
it is my comfort in my skin even if there are times i would like 
nothing more than to inhabit someone else's for the hour or the evening
in the evenings, like tonight, after joy and revelry,
it is my willingness to sit quietly
as i try to give birth to something i can hold up in the light
in front of all of you
breathe into it and make it sing

© e. e. stanley 2/15/2010

dance. lingual.

variations in masculinity

overwhelmed the senses

bodies moving isolations blips and explosions

surreally independent revolutions of each section

head shoulders chest hips knees wavering through

space

this animated architecture

parts leading in improbable directions

counterintuitive

floating... slowed... down

broken satellites challenging each other reacting responding

sometimes one body approached another

begging - be flexible - only to be thrown

back to the floor mightily

all at once i thought of julia child

flipping the potato pancake

to have the courage of one's convictions

trusting that as one's head leads

backwards

to the floor knees buckling

the soft part of a thigh will be just there

at the crook of the neck

just at the right moment

when the cable of light came loose from the edge of the stage

snaking its way around the floor

bullwhipped each time a body scuffed over it

anticipation rose setting our teeth on edge

waiting for how some disaster might play out

that winding strand of glow became the punctuation

in every move thereafter

dancers continued effortlessly

missing the cord - even running backwards full tilt

helicopter flips thrown bodies propelled

into brief flight

© e. e. stanley 2/6/2010

not original

turned the corner

past a window of one of the run down garden apartments

into breeze

sharp tinged like cooked carrots and mildew

this idea is not original

that the surface can remain still

and the view, beautiful

no indication of the inverse mountain

of grief quietly drifting below

last night's dream of S.

dislodged some piece worn thin

fracturing off even after years

gone since our varying goodbyes

the splash of its surfacing

welling up as i drove us to work

but not spilling over

© e e stanley 2010(?)

dream. lover

(i will fall for the enemy)

you and i set out in an elaborate game of intrigue

trailing this gangster... a young mafioso

sending him

a message

i cut pieces of his car away with delicate scissors

in broad daylight

in front of his strong men

then i missed the getaway car and was left to confront him

his languid form, olive skinned and eyes deep

we were at a series of pools

shaded by great concrete archways

like highway overpasses

spring fed, shallow tiled lagoons

i was wearing a long shift

a party dress

my underwear already halfway down my thighs

i was trying to get them back up as he approached

i wasn't sure whether this water was for washing or drinking

and then i stepped in

just lay back in the water

he laughed

i floated... quiet

amazed because it was so shallow in the first lagoon

barely the depth of my shins

the waters all connected and soon i was caught in a current

unexpectedly strong

whirling me, eyes closed, in a great circle

i reached out my hand

uncertain if he would take it and pull me in

he did and then we were in a recess together

like a wide bath for two

you appeared, looking in over the edge

i was taken by his skin, by my want

i looked into your eyes

"i want the enemy as a lover.

is this something you can allow me?"

you nodded solemnly

i looked into his eyes

"i want you but i will never leave her

is this ok with you?"

a grin spread slow and crooked on his lips

but our intimacy evaporated

we saw a rival thug settling into a nearby pool

now i needed to defend his escape

to keep violent reprisals at bay

my lovers fled

i crawled up over this looming man's body

peered through dark sunglasses

and whispered

"stand down"

he was amused

we danced a game of aggression

colored to appear as diplomacy

he was physicality & force & schadenfreude

i taunted him while staying this side of the lines drawn between us

there was no peace, only waiting

until one of my gestures went too far

he rumbled upward into displeasure

heavy fingers drumming on a table in a darkened kitchen

i woke without satisfaction

8/16/11 e.e. stanley