But you cannot pick around home. Maybe your home, but not my home. I can throw the doors wide–and often do so with open arms–but to refuse a beam–whether it be a corpulent bird or a hi hat trill–is to cripple such a font to its foundation. For it comes from the depths of my soul, indivisible and not mine, but inherited slowly over time with no recipe to speak of, only a dance rediscovered over and over with folkish steps, a memory recognized when lived out with abandon. I cannot choose what bubbles up from this stew.
Circles and Rectangles
I feel like Cameron in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when he is struck by the Seurat painting, except there’s no John Hughes movie soundtrack in the back, and I fail to fall into the painting the way Cameron does. The pressure to discern meaning increases when other people are nearby. I’m afraid that they see something I can’t.
Let the Clouds Cry
Dream about the heart-shaped leaves
on the thin branches of the purple tree.
You know the one.
Where the butterflies
sleep amongst the flowers,
Blessed by the tears of the clouds.
My Catalina
As I write this, my tastebuds pucker, saliva gathers greedily at the inside corners of my cheeks. In my mind, I see the almost hysterical orange-red color, the slightly greasy surface of Catalina as it oozes out of the little round hole in the white plastic bottle cap. Catalina is a gift my mother gave me before I left home to raise myself at 13 years old and, though it may seem strange, I don’t regret this gift.
Metamorphosis
Bothwell’s use of glass is guided by her belief that the material creates a kind of inner space when transmitting light. Curiously, as it moves through her creations, the light itself undergoes a kind of transmutation, which forms an aura around the object. These pieces carry Bothwell’s intuitive awareness of metamorphosis into the space they occupy, responding to and then transforming the light that surrounds them. Her works are physical metaphors of the constant change we undergo at any given moment.
Tainted Remains
Remember, dying ain’t pretty, and you can’t let the kiss of death linger too long. Pretend that you love him. Pretend that you are Milton’s little girl. Pretend that the pain is too much to bear. Do not laugh at how botched your aunt looks. Instead, kneel and pray—pretend to if you cannot.
Less So For You, More So For Me
He doesn’t dance with me like that, Mom. He trips over my toes and splashes cranberry juice on the floor and I love it. I slurp it off of his New Balances.
This is Not a Place of Honor
Deep in the strange forest—half dead and sprinkled with the bones of long extinct creatures—was an even stranger nest. It was large and rotting, parts of it collapsed and covered in foliage. But it was The Mouse’s favorite place in the entire forest. The large nest was full of the prettiest rocks The Mouse had ever seen. These rocks were flat and could be pulled open and they were full of leaves. The leaves, in turn, had colorful markings on them. The leaves were mesmerizing, fascinating, and oddly delicious. On occasion, the markings looked like things The Mouse had seen. Sometimes, even The Mouse themself would be in one of the rocks.
Light Poems
This moment is outside of time
Ironic cause that’s what i’m needing
To teach you
Pleasure I have in my veins
This planet rewinds everyday just
To feed you
How can I be of service?
Burn me up, Wave me
Listen here patiently
Lessons entwined in my roots
Plant me within your mind so nervously
Last Call
You motion for another martini and down it quickly. What number is that? Three? Five? Why hasn’t He noticed you yet? You’re drunk but not yet sloppy. You’ll leave before that happens. Catch a cab, stumble up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk up. You pick up your cell and your fingers move slowly but you put a note in your phone with the name of the bar you’re at—sober you will appreciate the breadcrumbs.