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.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 02, 2011
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
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
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