Jan 31, 2016
Ladies’ Night
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Ladies’ Night
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No bod(ies) to love #anthem
Dear Drake #84
Dear Drake,
When Krystal gives me life it feels like a thousand hands kneading, the nails of a thousand fingers digging, clawing into my skin.
When Krystal gives me life it feels like walking from one cosmos where there are machetes for grass to another where there are firing guns for grass. And the only difference is, the only difference is, between the two grasses, the only difference is that now I know how to fly.
When you die and immediately ascend, you don’t spend any time— not one day, not forty— swimming through the unimaginable dark of the sea. And that’s the part, that’s the part Rose could never know. She keeps dying and coming back, dying and coming back. She’s on day 39 of dying and coming back.
I’m tired, but not as exhausted as her.
I’ve just been born. I’m so young. I’m a baby.
The hardest, bravest, biggest thing I could do is cry “Who are you,” as I take steps in your direction. Who are you when I approach your body? Who are you in relation to my body? Who are you in this moment? Who are you in this world?
And what do you plan to do?
When— after your ascension— you are dragged back down to earth, you get to live again— more— and ask these kinds of questions. And! And. And you get to expect some answers.
All ears (and eyes and nose and hands and voice), LW
Dear Drake #79
Dear Drake,
It’s very quiet in the garden. When I get tired of writing letters I walk out back and rub rosemary between my fingers. I pick thyme. The garden is not a place for metaphor or symbolism; so I don’t run back inside to write lines about remembering or the eternity of minutes and the flash of years.
I praise the sun in silence: the warmth of afternoon light on my closed eyelids, on my closed lips, on my open hands. I hold no pen in my hand. There is no way to record this moment but to remember in shape and smell and sound.
Instead of writing it in a letter, I’ll whisper the memory, like a song, into my love’s left ear.
With my pen in hand, I’ll write some other story.
Increasingly no longer yours (praise be), LW
Dear Drake #74
Dear Drake,
When someone asks about the labor involved in building a house, you might spend months thinking about the question. What does it look like? The masons, carpenters, and contractors are all known, walking around with toolbelts on singing, “We’re building a house! We’re building a house!” They talk about how tired they are. They can’t get out of bed. They can’t describe their work, can’t deliver a narrative of what it looks like because they are so deeply involved in it, so deeply invested, have been at work for so long, they have no more words, no more paintings, no more movies, not one more play. All they have are poems, shells melting away from waking eyes, shards building bridges to encounters. These bodies are pained. These bodies are screaming, “I JUST WANT TO LIVE,” while they watch others die, while they watch others try to kill them. The people building this house just want a break from their labor; they’ve been working since the days they were born. They worked hard to be born, and even harder to stay alive; and while it’s a job they’re quite well equipped to do, they could use a pause. They could use some rest. Won’t someone let them surrender? Prepare for them beds in which nothing happens but quiet and breath. Let them close their eyes. Sing songs to them, sing poems. Let them close their eyes. Lay hands on them. Kiss each one of their fingers. Place lips on their foreheads, ears, and bones. Trace their bones and hold their flesh. Praise the peace of rested bodies! Praise the Sabbath that you’ve made, the Sabbath you could offer, the bed you could make. Be a good Samaritan. Practice your goodness and see— don’t watch— this body at its edge. Note the edges of this body: its bumps, its dips, its curves. Touch the skin that covers the flesh of this body. Remind this body that it is real: that it’s not an idea or a concept or some strange art. This body is not an impossibility or a problem or an issue or a movie or a painting or a memory or play or a book or a poem or some phantom light. This body is not a force or a weapon or a prize or an obstacle or a territory or some strange land. This body is not a metaphor. This body needs rest. It surrenders. It surrenders. It surrenders. This body waves flags. I dance. I wave every single one of my flags. I lay my body in the bed I’ve made. It’s a self-brokered peace. I’m this close to having no more poems. I keep sounding the alarm. I yell, “I’M RUNNING OUT OF POETRY.” People laugh like it’s the best joke I’ve ever told. They know this world is broken, so it’s a perfect time for poems. They say, “You know you have so much more left in you.” I weep, “I know, I know, I know.” They like to see me work. They put me to work. They love my work. It turns them on. They watch me work. I keep dancing for them. “I surrender. I surrender. I surrender.” I practice saying this before I wake. I start dancing for them as soon as I get up. It turns me on. I need to be turned off. I dance alone so my body will tire itself and rest. I think, “No more letters. No more alphabets.” I panic. I think, “What am I without my poetry? What am I without my work?” I think, “After this one, I’ll spend the rest of my life writing well made plays.” A word to the wise or anyone trying to live: when the builders of this house bend their bodies to kneel at your feet, just stop: Take their faces in your hands and whisper into their mouths, “Thank you. I see you. You can rest now. Amen.”
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Dear Drake #73
Dear Drake,
Who are you?
(Oh, I know you weren’t looking forward to hearing from me.)
I just want to eat all the time.
When I get hungry my attention wanes and I can no longer pretend I care about what you’re saying. I do not care about reaching you, about walking with you, about going there with you, about holding your hands.
I should panic when the thought crosses my mind that I could just put my hands around your neck and squeeze.
But I don’t.
Rose always says: “As a body full of salt, let me tell you, it just leaves you bloated.”
It's not even my battle. The problem is, it’s my war.
We’re all fighting the same war. We’re all fighting each other when we do nothing at all.
I’ll keep putting my body on the line for her. I swear I will. It’s a selfish endeavor: If I help her fight this war, she rests.
I’ll rest and eat mangoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Never ever ever yours hahahahahahaha, Mauve
Dear Drake #71
Dear Drake,
I came here to build a home, but I keep writing these letters hoping that my desperation to correspond with you will point to some sign of my life. I should put this project to rest. Mauve stayed up to make us porridge when Rose didn’t come back from the sea. I thanked her for a full stomach and reprieve from the constant haunting of ghosts of men who never lived for us. We washed the salt away from Rose’s body and made one braid from the hairs she had left. I keep telling Krystal I could write textbooks full of what I’ve learned from the dead. She suggests that I stop trying to kill people: “You know, you don’t have to be so smart.” If I planted a breadfruit tree in the garden today, I could leave and return in twenty years to bear witness to the results of its growth. I have to look at trees when people avert my gaze. I go inside. I go inside to dance alone. I go inside to eat. I think of what names to give my daughter and there is only one. I think of what I shall name my tree. I think maybe the best way to show my daughter love is to let her father name her. And this will always be my biggest mistake, wishing that God could be held in the hands of men.
-LW
Dear Drake #70
Dear Drake,
Did you hear about that guy who met his lover and everything was all great and good until one day he looked into his lover’s face and saw his child staring back at him? Could you imagine? Apparently the lover had removed the lover’s mask—maybe to get some air or maybe because the mask was tight and stifling—to reveal the face of a child who was asking for daddy. But the thing is, the man was still a son and couldn’t reckon with having to be a father, so he walked away from his child. Could you imagine? He lost a love. Could you imagine? I mean, what if it was a great one? I think it was a great one. But all loves are great, aren’t they? I don’t know…I guess he lost this love so he could go on to eventually stop loving someone else, or something else; so that he might love again; so that he’d stay somebody’s son; so that someone or something would always take care of him and watch him play. Or maybe he keeps losing his loves so that he goes on unrelated to anyone or anything. This is a man who has driven himself to not having any kin and I’m sure he calls that peace. How crazy is that? I believe you can imagine.
-the Town Gossip