[Title from a Mary Oliver Poem]
I took this photo at the Blue Mosque in Turkey, on the tourist side- my muslim past beneath my western garb, short skirt under my chaador. A mess of hidden contradictions and nostalgia for rituals I fought so hard againstThis week, on the one miracle warm day, I went outside my lovers house with my morning glass of water to soak up sun as I hydrate. Only I didn't bother wearing pants. Your ass is hanging out, she says. I feel fine, I say. What if it makes others uncomfortable? That's their problem, not mine. Why is it always others?
Why not?
Please stay behind this line. Please respect the distance between us. Please give me space. Please assert your boundaries. Please forget what I told you. Please touch me there.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for not listening.
How many times do you post beware signs with your mouth, scream do not enter signs , wheatpaste whisper caution, proceed slowly posters when all along your body is saying closer, closer, closer?
Often enough.
I cherish my moments, when my spoken language matches my body language. I tell her on the foggy ride from wine country, I miss her like a soft sweater on a chilly night.
She responds from somewhere on a bart train or the back of some hardware store: I miss you like a table misses a chair. I miss you like a cold hand misses a mitten. like a snake misses his molten skin, like an oak tree misses its tire swing.
24 hours too long till we touch.
The silence is naked and arching her back suggestively.
