I used to have a bath tub. I’d walk each night through city streets, closing my hopeful hands around heavy pink blossoms as they sighed their silken petals into my waiting fingers, ready and ripe. Sweet smoke filled my home, and the world was a haze of hot water and city sounds, thick copal and soft songs through the floorboards overhead. I do not miss it, beautiful as it was, I don’t think. For the world weighed heavy upon my heart then, as it does now. And time moves only in one direction no matter how we will it otherwise.
I live in my truck now and I watch my friends have weddings and children. I am more like Georgia O’keeffe I think. I am more like no body else. Like someone who watches and wonders and can never quite fall in step with the human world beyond the boundaries of my own body. My body which speaks an ancient language my mind has forgotten how to translate. In darkness and in dim light, I tell stories to my lovers through my touch. This is how I can communicate most clearly, most honestly, most completely. I am like the Ocean whose frothy waves tell little of her infinity. I am like the fungi reaching out toward daylight from beneath the forest floor, subterranean and immense, in ways you cannot see, but can only sense. I used to have a bath tub. I filled it with flowers and prayers. Maybe one day, I will again.