THE WILD COLONIAL, QUEER GAME NIGHT

 

Walking worn wetland paths, unfurling

miles of wool, rarely dropping a stich

knitting project after project alone

through needle ice of New England Winter

slipper shells on muddy banks of Summers

snaking through the wilderness

I was home.

 

Useless here, in a bar

among people I wished

I belonged to.

I needed to cast on 80 stitches.

Start something new.

 

57, 58, 59, 

“How do you Identify?”

the fuck?

   Sorry!

 

I knit seven projects in this stone walled bar

before speaking aloud

 

I was the frantic clacking of needles, the embodiment

of overheard conversations,

the one generating her own forcefield in public.

 

When a project isn’t perfect, I start over.

Not by gently picking out a row or two below,

but tearing out and starting from scratch.

I am good at unraveling.

 

My yarn snagged the barstool as I twisted

 to meet the face of the person I swore at.

She was ghost pipe, wintergreen berries and smelled

of juniper. I lost count. Loosened the stitches, wound

them back onto the ball of lichen colored yarn.

   

“So, how do you identify?”

 

I was 31 years old and I had never been asked before. 

The unraveling began.

 

Even I knew My husband is home watching the kids

so I can figure that out

is a terrible pickup line so I stall.

           

Nimbo cumulous clouds form in my silence

darkening the interior of the bar, wetting

the air, condensing on rock

barometric pressure dropping

as I freeze

 

and I realize –

I never learned to tell the story

of how I came to understand who I could love.

I had no blooming shawl to protect me from conversation

so I chose to look up and really see this woman

 which at least said enough to get her to sit.

 

I asked if she minded if I knit.

Twisted my silkworm fingers

and quickly cast on eighty stitches, enough for a hat,

starting from the beginning.

 

 

SKINNY DIPPING AT A CHRISTIAN CAMPGROUND

 

We tiptoed past parents

         sleeping in their nylon domes,,

making our way to forbidden water.

 

Mesmerized by the glint of quarts

         in gravel, the luminous blue of birch bark

in moonlight and how we still smelled

 

like Avon’s skin-so-soft insect repellent

         after twenty-five cent cold camp showers.

There were rules: We would keep our underwear on.

 

The girls and I snuck down the boat launch,

         they timidly slipped into the water to their waists

before taking their shirts and scampering bras off, tossing them

 

to me on shore and gesturing for me to come.

         I stood, holding the warm cotton against myself.

Covering my clothed chest with their still-breathing clothes.

 

It’s just us girls. I saw the rope swing

         braiding in the wind, the tip of it just grazing

the surface of the water, creating intricate patterns to distract

 

from their bodies, biolumiscent selkies

         in the nearly full moon. Come on, get in.

Overwhelmed by their seal skins removed,

 

the curves of blooming breasts,

         biting hips kissing the water,

the flickering of waves against them, I don’t remember

 

whether I took my shirt off,

         joined them, or whether they got cold

and collected their shirts from the rack of my arms.

 

I just remember I was as wet

         as they were and I stared

at that distant coil of twisting rope.

 

PIE

 

He counts grey hairs, gives up when he’s lost

in the numbers. A ten-year old’s game –

I imagine each a feather growing

from my crone’s head

witch wisdom sprouting

downy pigeon.

 

Mom, if your greys were fractions

I’m guessing 1/8. ¼ ? Perhaps, ½?

Why?

You’re too young.

 

He continues splicing

cleaving a part with his fingers

fresh home shave – sensation

a cold steel table

 

I have already flown away

on gusts of explanations of

deficiencies, genetics

hospitalizations frequent enough I simply

text him when I go

 

prefrontal cortex fired up

to bake intrusive thoughts of the pieces

of pie my skull will be sliced into –

an early death, autopsy when I die,

 

a crust singed when

the broiler accidentally set ablaze

charring the crystalized sugar on the

strawberry rhubarb

his favorite.