into the green
time, in the
while there’s still
time, it’s clean
time, out with
what we don’t need
time, you know
what I mean:
let’s deem ourselves
better than fine,
let’s drink the last
sip of winter’s
In a soulmate we find not company, but a completed solitude. -Robert Brault
What I would’ve give to be settling in to eat breakfast
at Eaton’s Sugarhouse with you. The sky would offer
no commentary as we stripped off our scarves, unlatched
our jackets. We’d slouch a little in the chairs designed
for hunters on opening day of rifle season, for families
who’ve fed their cows hay from their own fields
for generations. We’re not those people; we’d only be
ourselves on a Thursday, a little sleepy still from summer’s
hot swipe of mayhem which we survived with long porch
lunches, sweaty bandanas, tulsi-scented winds. The windows
which appear cloudy from the road would be adorned
with hand-sewn curtains as if the diner were a living room
where anyone’s languor was welcome. Plates full of food
would arrive and greet our noses with their names.
We’d eat eggs and hot sauce over toast and split an order
of buckwheat waffles. It wouldn’t be the best meal
we’d ever eaten, not even the second best, but we’d be
unhurried and together: buttering toast, passing ketchup.
1. In high school (middle school?) I was sure the chorus to this song said “Yo lie come way.” I actually have a mix where it says: Mark Morrison-Yo Lie Come Way. What would that even mean? Is it a request? No idea why I didn’t think about this absurdity a the time. Probably because I was used to not knowing what the eff r&b artists were saying. (The song is ACTUALLY called “Return of the Mack,” and he’s saying “You lied to me.”)
2. I like making words with “lady” in them. The verb “ladyweird” (to be your fucking awesome self in the presence of your ladies, which may or may not include talking in a distinctive voice/saying stuff you wouldn’t say around other people), the noun “ladyfairy” (the women in my life who drop their friendship gifts upon me & vice versa), ladyfriend, ladystuff, ladygravy (just made that one up–I’ll define it as “the delicious sauce of a lady,” interpret as you will), ladywild, ladychats, ladyscapes (a landscape populated by ladies doing sweet stuff)….etc.
3. Speaking of ladystuff: THINX. Just thinking (thinkxing?) about how these underwear would have changed my life as an early menstruater makes me tear up a little. Future girlchildren of the world: get excited. (For the uninitiated, THINX are underwear for those days of the month when you are shedding your uterine lining like the badass female you are.)
4. LadyYelp now exists and it’s called Fairy GodBoss. It’s a website where women can rate how sexist our workplaces are. This strikes me as deeply important and exciting. Because, somehow, there is still no federal law requiring paid family leave, and women are getting discrimiated against for growing humans in their bodies, and we’re also making less money overall. Sexism is technically illegal…but so is jaywalking!
5. “You will never need another lover/Cuz you a MILF and I’m a motherfucker,” -Jay-Z, to Beyonce, in the “Drunk in Love” REMIX. These are the type of lyrics that made me want to write rap lyrics in high school, I’m not kidding. But then I realized who I was (short, white, Westchester) and switched to poetry. But still. Rappers. You make me LAUGH. And that laughter is infused with a little disgust (cuz misogyny) and a little reverence (cuz wordplay).
I’m loving Nigel Van Wieck right now. He feels like a modern Edward Hopper (who incidentally had a summer home very close to where I live, who painted the farms along the road I drive to work on ). I like the shapes of people’s bodies that he portrays, the positions they’re in. And he’s alive right now, living and painting in New York, which means we can purchase prints for eighty bucks, follow him on Instagram, wild but true.
*Please note that I technically know nothing about painting except that I love paintings.
Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.