Catalystcorvid - Whimsy, Creativity, Delight.

Rites of Winter

We’d been feasting on the famous foods of winter: squash, potatoes, a steamed pot of dark greens. And after, we danced in Glenn’s living room above Crystal Creek, barefoot on the Persian rug, eating chocolate cake, and almost knocking over the candles. So when the frogs in the pond out front began to sing—a bass note followed by a high-pitched exclamation—we slid out the door and past the tall clusters of bamboo, over the wooden bridge, moving to the frenzied rhythm of the frogs, who—it seemed— grew louder and more intent the more we rocked to their cacophony. So it was frogs and moonlight and dancing under the bare bones of the trees, the creek suddenly swollen after six years of drought. And Glenn—one year older and nearing (though he didn’t yet know it) the end of his greatest love. And we were calling out to the frogs, who called back to us as we stumbled, nearly into the bracken water, and leapt up onto the pond-side boulders, hands in the air, a light mist falling on our arms, our upturned faces. And I couldn’t decide: was the world enamored with itself?— all this riotous back and forth? Or had we only invoked alarm, amphibian for get-back! get-back! I didn’t know. But how happy we were, for that hour, to believe we were one marvelous body, in our smooth and slippery skin. Even if the frogs did not want us. Even if our joint fates are written, already, in the tainted water, the dark and opulent mud.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

i always wanted someone to make blackout poetry of one of my posts but so far i have only had one blacked out to say egg. i guess you if you can't write the poem yourself you can't choose the poem

send a heart and a ship for a brief snippet!

❤️ first kiss / realization

🧡 kissing in bed / lazy kiss / cuddling

💛 reunion kiss / relief

💚 true love's kiss / magic kiss / healed

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss

💗 slow kiss / gentle kiss / inevitable / soft

💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out

💕 kissing somewhere other than lips

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

🤍 kiss at the wedding / milestone

🖤 kissing while crying / goodbye kiss / desperation

Service Station

You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit, said the attendant every time my mother pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue. We never knew why. She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. My brother and I would look at each other sideways in the back seat, eyebrows raised— though lord knows we’d lived in Berkeley long enough. He smiled when he said it, then wiped the windows and pumped the gas. I liked the little ritual. Always the same order of events. Same lack of discussion. Could he sense something? Attune to an absence of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting— a way of tossing her an apple, a peach? It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment of which she seldom spoke, and true she never thought herself a beauty, since in those days you had to choose between smart and beautiful, and beauty was not the obvious choice for a skinny bookish girl, especially in Barbados. No wonder she became devout, forsaking nearly everything but God and science. And later she suffered at the hands of my father, whom she loved, and who’d somehow lost control of his right fist and his conscience. Whose sister was she, then? Sister of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute, the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams? But didn’t her savior speak in parables? Isn’t that the language of the holy? Why wouldn’t he come to her like this, with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms, to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan, and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness, as he filled the car with fuel, and told her— as a brother—to go ahead, partake of the garden, and eat of it.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

Mosquitoes

Thin buzz of hunger, constant hum. At night I drape a net around my bed just to keep them away. They like the flesh above my ankles best, and then the sweetness of my face. The Buddhists say we mustn’t want to kill another living thing. How often have I taken one, crushed it in my palm?

A saint said the lion is in love with the gazelle it hunts. I love salmon, so I sauté their bodies with garlic and butter, slip the moist flesh in my mouth. And haven’t I bitten my beloved until a pink stain colored the skin?

A tiny drop of blood is all they crave. Is that so much to ask? And they are so devoted, groupies at the backstage door, a band of Hare Krishnas, wailing in the street, cherubim, playing their small harps without cease, as they are said to do in heaven.

Only this is not heaven. I dream of a night without blemish, of love without the sting.

But here they are, a mini mariachi, hovering outside the net, singing their same old, high-pitched serenade— volver, volver , they cry, the song about the one that got away.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

i may not have the magic words to fully express how i feel, but the world is better with trans women in it. my life is better with trans women in it. you are a warm light in the dark and your existence brings me and many others joy. you are my sisters and my dear friends. i love you and i'm glad you're here.

idk thinking about how sometimes you have to show up for people you aren't that close to, because sometimes you're just the person who's there. sometimes you invite a new friend to a party and end up having to sit with them through a panic attack. sometimes you run into an acquaintance on their worst day and they need to talk about what happened. sometimes someone is crying in a stairwell and you're the only one around to ask if they're okay. and none of this is "trauma dumping" or whatever the fuck it's just being there for people because you're the one in the room with them.

sweet sweet summertime

Going into Space

SO I GUESS THEY ARE GOING INTO DAMN SPACE AGAIN SOON. A TWO AND A HALF BILLION DOLLAR CAMPING TRIP. OH SURE THESE THREE HAVE ACCOMPLISHED MUCH IN THEIR LIVES. THEY BOY SCOUTING WILL FINALLY COME INTO A REAL TEST. WHY DON'T THEY HOVER THEIR SPACECRAFT OVER THE RESERVATIONS OR HOVER THEIR SCREAMING STEEL OVER THE GHETTOS AND SEE BUT I GUESS YOU CANNOT SEE THE POVERTY FROM 28 MILES ABOVE THE EARTH.

Rising Voices: Writings of Young Native Americans, Francis Becenti, edited by Arlene Hirschfelder and Beverly R. Singer.