Service Station
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.
More Posts from Catalystcorvid and Others
graves grow no green that you can use.
gwendolyn brooks
One of those goofy maid animes, except the viewpoint character isn't the hapless master or mistress of the house, but a regular-ass janitor who ended up on this crew due to a paperwork mixup at the temp agency and can't figure out what the fuck is wrong with her co-workers.
Today I read Bonfire Opera by Danusha Laméris, available for free as an ebook through my college's library (if you haven't checked out yours' digital collection, do so now). I had previously seen her work online, and even posted the popular Feeding the Worms, but most of her collection remains firmly bound to print and had thus far evaded my discovery. Boy am I glad to have checked her out. Her descriptions of food, grief, and desire are all mingled into each other in an evocative way that makes me want to cook, cry, and kiss beautiful feminine men.
I've transcribed a handful of my favorites to post here, so keep an eye out. There's plenty of lovely entries I'm not including, so if they catch your eye give it a read.
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.
Tag meme!
List 5 topics you can talk on for an hour without preparing any material.
Not including the obvious "my OCs/original works" and only allowing myself ONE video game for fun haha.
Disability activism
Music history (US centric admittedly)
Film production
Undertale/Deltarune
Doctor Who
Tagged by: @inspirationallybored, thank you ^_^ Tagging: @blissfullyunawares @daisywords @winterandwords @lazybats4wve @lamb-of-wrath @penpaperponderings @storyteller-kara
"sometimes I want to win. And sometimes I want to lose so badly I can taste it."
Worlds in Worlds, Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.
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.
i want to coin a phrase that's the opposite of writer's block. call it the muse's fire hydrant. thirty thousand story ideas are being beamed directly into your brain and if you don't write them all at once you will die.
Hi I'm Crow, a 20-something hobbyist writer with a renewed love of reading. I post writing snippets, poetry & quotes from books that I like, as well as useful resources I find around the net. Accessibility and accurate sourcing are a priority. If you see me online, do me a favor and tell me to log off and go work on my novel. Icon by Ghostssmoke.
115 posts