Author: mbl528

Hello From The Void!

Me

It has been quite some time since I’ve written on my blog. So here is one of the updates I have for you, dear reader. I got a black and white tuxedo cat named Ruby. I admit I am a fan of her, even though she has a habit of trying to sit on my keyboard when I write. 

Ruby is watching me now, very intently, her eyes darting back and forth as my hands fly across the keys. I imagine Ruby’s cat-like confusion; what on earth could I be doing? The answer is, I don’t know. I guess I’m sending things into the void.

The void is what consumes the work of little artists and creatives like me. Above all else, the void eats. You can be sure it will devour what you make without offering a compliment to the chef. There is no feedback in the void. No way of discerning if that thing you just painted was a masterpiece or if that melody you wrote is as beautiful as it sounds when you hum it to yourself. In short, it’s where things go when they have no where else to go.

The void has read every tentative screenplay, heard every painstaking revision of a punchline, tasted every inspired recipe. Are you as curious as I am about what work is floating out there? Somewhere there is a sentence I’ve never heard that would split me in two, and I would be better for it. 

It’s so easy to make your work meaningless when you don’t have a rapt audience. I am excellent at it. I have a terrible habit of asking, “But who is watching?” whenever I share something creative. “You’re probably annoying,” and “What’s the point?” I say, and other such obvious and self-deprecating things. Little makers and creatives understand. Like me, you hold a mirror to your stuff and only see what it’s not. 

But the gag is that having an audience doesn’t fix that feeling. The critic in all our heads doesn’t care if there’s a full or empty house. (This critic is crafty and frighteningly specific about how we’re fucking up, always.) My critic will say anything for attention. I remind myself of this often.

So. What do we do? 

With or without an audience, the void exists. It’s over my shoulder now; what if these words are devoured whole? What if no one cares? It’s possible. Likely, even. But there is something stubborn in me that trudges on. Because here is the answer to the question of the void: it’s not a graveyard. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe inside this void is a brilliant kaleidoscope of ideas and art that is very much alive. What if the worst that could happen is that we’re making something beautiful? 

Reader, this is a long and twisty way of saying that these words could only be helpful to me, and that’s okay. You might hate this because it’s too meta. And honestly, that’s like, an incredibly fair critique. But despite the void or the critic in my head, my creative tendencies are better out than in. So are yours. We owe this much to ourselves. 

And even when I think no one is listening, the void is there with its ear pressed against the door, waiting for the moment I choose to let go.

In the vein of sharing work, here’s a poem I wrote a while ago that has been sitting around my google drive.

Talking To Myself

your life unfolds 

in a thousand origamied shapes

no two edges estranged from another

holographic cross streets,

wave at the apparition of this day

that should not leak through but does 

evolution is little more than a story told in limbs

how delicious it is to be punched in the gut now and again

honeyed rum buzzing in a glass

we left the magma inside you 

Unflinching 

blessed are those who can’t look away

that itch in your palm 

Dear one, 

you couldn’t break the yolk if you tried

July 18TH – 25th 2020

The Junk Drawer

Welcome to the debut of The Junk Drawer!

We’ll sometimes call it TJD for short.

The first thing you all should know before you go on is that I have a natural pronunciation of the word “drawer,” that sounds like “draw.” Really. My sisters do too. I blame my parents, who both grew up in New York City, for passing this along to us.

Music

  • I’m not sure I can speak about music without mentioning the awful assault against Rapper Megan Thee Stallion. The story is unfolding as we speak, but be sure to listen to Knowsy Pod to hear three intelligent women unpack the significance of the event. What’s most curious about the situation is how it’s progressed. It started off as reports of shots fired in the air and Megan stepping on glass, (many news outlets said she was arrested, which was incorrect, TMZ is NOT on it) to a specific intent to harm on behalf of Tory Lanez. Megan herself tweeted that she has experienced trauma from the event. In the tweet she also wrote, “Black women are so unprotected & we hold so many things in to protect the feelings of others w/o considering our own.” I couldn’t agree more. She’s since fired back at a specific social media personality for joking about the shooting. I have a feeling that the situation will be clarified in the coming weeks to bring her the justice and healing she so clearly deserves. Also, Tory Lanez is scum.

  • This week, I’m listening to James Blake’s quarantine made song, “Are You Even Real?” I know it came out July 8th, but I’m listening to it this week, and it’s my blog so I make the rules. James’ song brings up something I love dreaming about, which is the idea that I am dreamed about. He previously dedicated his album, Assume Form, to his girlfriend, actress and activist Jameela Jamil. I listened to that album a lot during first semester finals in the library, and would get super bummed/jealous because I wanted someone to dedicate their creativity to capturing my essence. The last song on “Assume Form” is called “Lullaby For An Insomniac” – am I not supposed to imagine that’s about me? Not much work got done, as you may suspect. And is the bar on the floor for boyfriends? Perhaps… He brought up that Jameela Jamil is often credited as his muse, when she had a much more active role in the making of the album, and was even included in the credits. James and Jameela expressed that muses are a way to idolize women without actually acknowledging the role they have in the art. “Are You Even Real?” ignites my stubborn desire to be a muse and maybe just date a creative, nonetheless. He sings, “I spend the day/dreaming of connection/just to feel how you feel.” The gag is, I think he’s right that the title of muse is a cheap way of saying thank you to someone who has, in essence, made the art possible. Alas, I still want to be one. Is it that I secretly want to be captured and held, pinned down by words, or brush strokes, or lilting harmonies? Is it that I want to know that my energy is so expansive that it merits rumination? Every attempt at singing about me; close, but a near miss at replicating my sound. A charcoal sketch of my face, there but not quite. Perhaps a freckle misplaced. Maybe in that miss, the gap between the art and its intended subject, the muse is free. If you have any thoughts on muses and their role in art, please tell me. I find this endlessly fascinating.
Sigh.
  • FloMilli’s debut album, “Ho, Why Is You Here” was released this week. I’m just now listening as I write this, in awe of how FloMilli makes me feel too good for anyone. In “Pussycat Doll,” she raps in sing-song voice, “Your boyfriend kiss and tell/treat me like a wishing well.” Yes. Very good.

Celebrity

  • Kanye, Kanye, Kanye… I almost didn’t want to mention this. His Twitter rant had me staring at my phone screen vacantly for far too long. Kim insinuated that Kanye was in a manic state due to his bipolar disorder, which fans and media outlets have also surmised. He is so clearly in a place where he needs help. Telling the details of your wife’s almost-abortion to millions of people also isn’t great. And I’m holding those two things together at once because this situation is pretty complex, and mostly sad.
  • Britney Spears and conservatorship! I don’t generally follow the “Toxic” crooner (great song), but I have spent some time on Spears’ social media and I find it…strange. Remember when she burned down her home gym? #FreeBritney has been trending on social media and supporters of the movement have been protesting at hearings. What is conservatorship? After a series of public breakdowns in 2008, Britney’s manager and father gained legal control over her financial assets, estate, and personal assets. It’s sort of like getting state sanctioned authority over these parts of someone’s life, when they’re thought to be ill equipped to manage it themselves. The #FreeBritney movement claims that she is controlled by her lawyer and father. Sounds strange, but the plot thickens, because Britney’s tween son went on a tirade against his grandfather on Instagram live recently. Britney herself hasn’t said anything about the status of her conservatorship and seems to be having fun, burning gyms down notwithstanding. All in all, not sure what ANY of this means, nor do I have an opinion on whether or not the conservatorship needs to be dissolved. Whatever happens, I hope she continues to dance her heart out.

Real News

  • “It will probably unfortunately get worse before it gets better,” Trump said, at a press conference this last Tuesday about the pandemic. To which I say, did we not do the “worse” part, already? I’ve been in NYC since the pandemic hit in March. Watching my home be violently ravaged by this virus was pretty traumatic and mentally exhausting, and I finally feel like we are beginning to recover. I know that rates in the rest of the country are skyrocketing, so the idea that things are going to get worse is… dark. Trump so clearly couldn’t be less bothered. I read that he gets multiple covid tests a day, and I genuinely hope each test is more painful than the last. Especially because I remember him complaining about getting tested before it was even widely available the people who needed it most. I was denied testing in March because I wasn’t symptomatic enough. I finally got one done recently, and it was very ok. Extremely bearable. He’s a racist, mysogynistic, narcissist, and to top it all off; a wuss.

Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez took the House floor to speak about old, white republican man, Representative Yoho. Rep. Yoho accosted her on the Capitol steps, hurling insults at her and calling her “a fucking bitch.” He also called her dangerous, which is true. AOC has shined a light on how pathetically poor of character some our most prominent leaders are. She doesn’t have to do much either, these men expose themselves. AOC condemned Yoho’s actions in a searing speech made in congress, “Having a daughter does not make a man decent. Having a wife does not make a decent man. Treating people with dignity and respect makes a decent man,” and later, “I am someone’s daughter too.” I love that AOC took the time to address Yoho’s reprehensible behavior, but sometimes I get sad that women have to humanize themselves so much. I’M SOMEONE’S DAUGHTER. A GIRLFRIEND. A WIFE. I’M PLAYING A ROLE, I PROMISE. We can’t take at face value and as self evident, that AOC’s feelings matter. Bums me out. This comment has no reflection on AOC; I adore her, and was moved by her words. She couldn’t just say, “F*#k you, Yoho,” although that would’ve been iconic. Fun Fact: I met AOC while I was doing public health survey work and some Spanish translation in an outdoor market in Jackson Heights, Queens last summer. It was incredibly hot, and I was incredibly tired, and my day became infinitely better because I got a picture with her. I cried, which really surprised me! We love to see Puerto Rican, city women excelling. Watch AOC’s speech here.

TV & Movies

  • The ONLY thing I want is for HBO show Succession to start filming again, now that shooting is possible in New York City. Succession is my favorite show. Biting. Funny. Absurdly pretentious. Why do I enjoy seeing white, rich people argue over problems I pray to be important enough to have one day? Seeing families who are snippy with each other tickles me, maybe because my own is so notoriously gossipy and bad at resolving conflict. Gotta love em’ though! And most importantly, you have to laugh, as I often do in my own life. I also laugh at the characters in Succession, who find themselves in ridiculous situations, while still rubbing against one another in familiar, familial ways. Consider this brilliant exchange where Tom (older dude) dismisses Greg’s (younger dude) scruples. Greg doesn’t want to work at the family news channel, (imagine, if you will, a liberal working at Fox) because of his principles.
Tom belittles Greg

It’s so good, y’all. And this isn’t a particularly hot take, I think the show won an Emmy? Maybe you all have already watched, in which case let’s do a big group text about how good it is.

Miscellaneous & Me

  • It’s Leo season. Every day we stray further from Gemini’s light.
  • I made peanut brittle that was awful. It got stuck to the pan, so I just threw the whole pan away :/ I know my dad will not notice a missing cookie sheet.

Word Of The Week

  • Visiogenic: appropriate for broadcast on television. Ex. Sen. Yoho’s “apology” to AOC wasn’t visiogenic. I don’t know if that sentence makes sense, but in plain words, the apology was incredibly boring because it was devoid of any human feeling at all.

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On Buses, Trains, and Planes: Thank you, Aimee.

Real Life
Image Courtesy of Netflix

How the bus scene from Sex Education helped me through a small blizzard. Content Warning: Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Misogyny

January 2015, The Great North American Blizzard. I was a junior in High School and in Symposium, a few weeks during the school year where we could take fun, non-academic classes. Mine was about art and museums. We spent our winter days sketching in the art room and taking trips to galleries on the Lower East Side and Chelsea. Ordering too much food at restaurants in Chinatown for lunch because Mr. R’s budget allowed for some generous excursions. He was a great teacher, by the way. 

On January 26th, we went to Dia Beacon in Hudson, New York. One of my first times taking the Metro-North. I watched the terrain change from harsh lines and steel to idyllic riverscapes and trees. There was supposed to be an enormous blizzard that day, but I’m not sure how much we knew. Not sure how much we would’ve cared, either. I spent the day exploring the museum, taking silly pictures next to exhibits that tickled me, and musing over the ones that seemed inexplicable.

On the way back, news of the storm became worse. The subway would shut down after a specific time, and people clamored onto trains, trying to fit themselves home. I had to get on the last train downtown from Grand Central to Brooklyn. I also lived on the last stop of the 2 and 5 lines, meaning that I had to ride the subway to its end. I was used to that, though. Stuffing into the train with my two friends, I chatted as I tried to reach for a pole and hold myself steady in the tight crush. Trying to stand still on a packed, moving train car is always hard but this day proved extra difficult. Suddenly and unceremoniously, TAM (TAM, for The Awful Man) began rubbing his penis against my butt while I chatted. I remember not believing it was happening… because that stuff didn’t actually happen, right? But indeed it did, and I talked with my friends while he grinded against me. I’m not sure when or at what stop he got off, but I do remember wishing, very badly, that it would end. Of course, I felt icky, but I had no context for what it meant. Not that big of a deal, I thought. I still kind of think that. 

When I got home, I wrote a Facebook status. Ehem, and I quote, “Today on a crowded train with my friends I had what I felt like was a man continuously pressing his prick against my butt. I didn’t say anything because the train was so packed, and I wasn’t even sure if that’s what I was feeling. When I realized I was right, I stayed quiet. I don’t want to make a bigger deal out of this than it was and I usually don’t post statuses but I realized that that was not ok at all and NO ONE should ever have to feel uncomfortable like that on a train ride — or anywhere else. Girls SHOULD NOT have to accept that kind of disgusting behavior from men. Girls SHOULD NOT have to feel like their bodies are for public consumption (whether that be unwanted comments or physical touching). I encourage girls and women, when they feel brave enough, to challenge the actions of anyone who infringes on their personal space! It’s so important! On the bright side, I realize how everyday my belief in feminism multiplies!”

Isn’t it funny how Facebook was EVERYTHING in 2015? I stand by my emerging vocalness about feminism. Smart gal’. I wrapped up this experience neatly, chalked it up to good ol’ sexism, and called it a day. Filed under weird, train experiences. That’s just what you get living in NYC, I thought. My mom, who also grew up here, had the same kind of response when I told her. Sad, but doable, as far as bad things that could happen to you go. You can hear me doubting myself in my words: “What I felt like was a man continuously pressing his prick against my butt.” One foot in and one foot out of what happened. The curse of rape culture is that you don’t even believe yourself. 

Even now, I’m like, this isn’t a big deal. I’ve had a much scarier run in on the train that made me think of darker outcomes (A story for another blog post, I’m afraid.) But there is an ick with this one. What do I do with this ick? 

What has helped me enormously was an episode of the Netflix Original Sex Education. It is one of my favorite shows because it is so damn funny and so damn honest and so damn colorful. You may know the scene I’m talking about. Happy-go-lucky character Aimee, gets on the bus one day, oversized headphones on, holding a cake she made for her friend Maeve’s birthday. The viewers sense that Aimee is excited, looking forward to celebrating with Maeve. Aimee holds onto the pole as the bus jolts, and she bumps against the man behind her. She apologizes before looking backwards to see the man jerking off against her butt. “What are you doing?” She questions incredulously, before demanding the bus driver let her off the bus. When Aimee steps off, she sees his cum smeared against her jean pocket. After arriving to school, Aimee nonchalantly recounts what happened to Maeve, and Maeve recommends she report it. Maeve soberly tells her friend, “You’ve been assaulted.” From then on, we see Aimee struggle to cope with what happened. Seeing the man’s face when she tries to get on the bus, Aimee chooses to walk a long way to school every day instead.

At the end of the season, in a moment of bonding with other women (just shaking my head that women can bond over experiences of assault and harassment), she tells them that what scared her most was that the man who did it had a kind face. If a kind-faced man could do that to her, then so could anyone. Aimee had always felt safe on the bus, and now she didn’t. 

Do you get why I was unnerved by Aimee’s storyline? Challenged, even? I always thought about my small moment as NO BIG DEAL. If that were really true, why did Aimee’s experience make me feel so exposed? Watching her react to her assault made me question my interpretation of my TAM, miles away and years before Aimee’s, but still so similar. I don’t remember how I felt the rest of that blizzard ride. I kept taking the train after that day: headphones in, people watching, mind wandering. I wasn’t scared like Amy. I’m not saying that I wanted to be scared, but I wanted to know that feeling scared was an option. How would things be different, if I knew that then?

Taking the train was a big part of my life. It’s so god damn cliche, but it’s true. I grew up there, beginning to take the train far into the West Village for middle school by twelve. It’s where I practiced my independence. The pride I felt after completing my solo ride to middle school, I can’t really describe. I credit the train for sharpening my skills of observence, one of the things I love most about myself. But it’s a lawless place, every day bringing a new funny or weird experience to tell someone about. And because I lived at the last stop, I would never have walked to school like Amy. I didn’t feel it was an option, just like how I didn’t feel speaking up about TAM was an option. Telling my friends wasn’t an option. I’m disgusted that my body was used as an instrument—a non sentient blow-up doll to rub against. Maybe what I’m most mad about is that I can access that file of feeling easily by just thinking of that day. The embarrassment. The shame. Blech, you know?

If I’m honest with you all, I’m angry I didn’t say anything in the moment. I know that’s item number one on the list of things you shouldn’t be mad about. How did I talk to my friends like it wasn’t happening? TAM still makes me feel like an accomplice in his crime against me. 

Aimee said if someone who looked that kind could do this to her, so could anyone. That too is a tragedy. Many women know the exhaustion of feeling like constant prey. Another gift TAM left me in passing. The heightened suspicion. The paranoia. The mistrust. Like I needed any more of it than I already had. My home, which I still adore, became a bit greyer. Less magical. The surprise encounters I expect to have are never the friendly kind. I plan to meet more bad strangers on the train than I do good ones. 

My day began full of art and exploration and teenage shenanigans and ended with watching the snow dust the ground at home. It didn’t even blizzard where we were, which meant that the packed train car experience was a waste. I’m trying to explain how the significance of January 26th, 2015 crept up on me. Saying that it wasn’t a BIG DEAL became less satisfying to me as I got older and maybe a little wiser. What TAM did wasn’t so much damage me but damage my world. Like bad graffiti on a wall that deserves better. Ugly street art in a place it doesn’t fit. An eyesore in an otherwise lovely memoryscape. He fucked up a good day when good days are hard to come by. Only the nastiest, evilest people can do that so easily and so carelessly.

Thank you, Aimee, for helping me realize how that’s a crime. I’ve closed a door I didn’t realize was open. And I hope TAM has had many ruined, rainy, blizzardy days since! 

This feels all gloom and doom. I won’t lie, I SHOCKED myself by crying (just a lil’) while writing it. Still not sure what I’m crying about, 5 years later. Isn’t that something? I didn’t realize I needed to talk about TAM until I started writing a poem about growing up in the city. (I know that assault and harassment are not limited to specific place or times, it’s just how I contextualize what I’ve experienced.) That original poem included a line about the incident, but upon revising, I made the whole poem about TAM. Which still wasn’t enough. Now, I feel almost buoyantly happy I’ve shared this. Thank you for listening. If you want to see the poem, look below. I have moments when I remember I’m a good writer and this is one of them. 

Heroine's Journey Home         
Cut my teeth on this grid

Skycraped the skin off my cheek and tried not to wince
                                              
Tough girl, roaming at night, 
praying to the image of her door like a homing beacon, 
like she hasn’t envisioned a dozen hair-raised endings to this odyssey,
  
which never does unfold how you imagine, anyway.  

Have you ever had someone rub his dick against your ass 

on the Last Train downtown from Grand Central

The day of the “storm” which ended up being a sprinkle

White-knuckle-gripping the steel pole for comfort,

cuz New York girls ache for metal

Talking with my friends while he grinds against me towards 14th street

Pretending It's not happening, this quietly 

Cuz a real protagonist would dismember any serpentine beast
                         
Let the chorus sing about shame glowing hot and neon like an OPEN sign.

After, I nestled in my apartment, sat watching flakes dust the ground

Disappointed at the lack of disaster 

Have you ever wished New York City could be buried in snow
                                       
Our heroines rarely make it home unscathed.
                                                               
The cost of this; 
                                 
she could never love a city that didn’t smell like rust.



Amber’s Poem

Poetry

I know Amber pretty well, so I say kindly, she didn’t give me a lot to work with. She said she wanted to be inspired and have some words meant for her. Amber asked me to use the word “toes.”

This is the F I N A L poem in this ten poem capsule. (I didn’t realize I closed the portal at ten, but that’s a great number, so I’m happy.) It was my first attempt at Poems For You, and I’m so thankful to anyone that’s read or requested. My brain kinda hurts from this hard work though, so I’ll spend my time now working on articles and my podcast. This is a wonderful poem to end on, because it celebrates the weirdness of being creative, and how things come together in funny ways.

I wish you much weird, creative, funniness in your life.

For: Amber 

self, made collage by unsteady hands
requires a sense of humor to see the potential
in loose clippings, paper shreds cracking wise
about how an image comes together
the joke is on wholeness for thinking 
it was more special than its parts
only an artist appreciates the cracks,
giggles at fault lines,
recognizes the glue in places it tries to hide,
can paste an image of a rake in place 
of where toes should be — and why not? 
creation is joy dressed in absurdity,
painted the color topaz and maude,
watercolor strokes run free across the page,
untamed and understanding the lesson of the wild,
scraps have gorgeous use 

From: Maya

THE END

D’s Poem

Poetry

D wrote to me about feeling vulnerable and thinking a lot about self-image and wondering how other’s see her. She wanted a poem that would make her a little bit more whole. She asked me to use the words, “tracking” and “sunset.”

For: D

I wish you
tiger’s eye at sunset,
sea salt and lemon pools
The warm knowledge
that mirrors are thieves,
and try to steal your image for themselves
Have you heard it con you
into thinking it’s worth less
Tracking only by the trail 
of glitter you leave behind
Confetti and ticker tape fall,
creating a mosaic of reasons 
why you have nothing to prove 
I wish you a cup that overflows
The simple acceptance 
that you are evergreen,
wily and artful as spring,
so dangerously inspiring,
ink is bled in your honor

From: Maya

Greer’s Poem

Poetry

Greer told me that she has been feeling restless and lonely and a touch heartbroken. Oh, and a little hungry! She wanted me to use was “franchise.”

For: Greer

Pay attention to neon signage,
drawing gaze to the darker corners
To your dilapidated storefront that’s lost love,
still playing music parents swayed to 
Somewhere South of where you are: nostalgia 
Carrying stale laughter around like a souvenir keychain
Blowing dust off the archives
Artifacts from the careless days cropping up on the side of the road 
Memory’s franchise, 
found even in the isolated backwater, in the foreign, steel cities 
I forget the taste of the original 

From: Maya

Sophia Seki Fox’s Poem

Poetry

Sophia talked to me about feeling unsettled and having a lot of change in her life, both emotionally and physically. She has been thinking about home as a concept and had a desire to feel more grounded. The word she asked me to use was “Rip Van Winkle.”

For: Sophia Seki Fox

Rip Van Winkle falls asleep and wakes up to thirteen stars. Nationhood piecemealed from tattered rags. Dust. He time travels without sleep walking in any direction. Dreams in two languages. Crops familiar, but the grain goes against him. Slipping into old units of measurement like warn wool. Thinner than it used to be. Does he say, in centimeters or inches, “A revolution happened and I never cracked an eye. Because of my absence, would understand if the ground refused to hold my weight. But it does. Layers of home peel away like an onion. Birds sing stranger chords than I last remembered. Proof of my capacity to hold music in abundance. The places we live change without our permission. So it is. Wherever I am, we are alike in our newness.”

From: Maya

Lexi’s Poem

Poetry

Lexi wanted a poem out of curiosity, and because it’s fun to get writing addressed for you. I couldn’t agree more. She wanted me to use the word “growing.”

For: Lexi

Mid-sentence, caught ankle deep in grout
but unblushing, these tides have been lowered by sheer will
For every falsehood unraveled, an inch has gone
Neighborly villains are the most common kind and 
when you’ve been tricked enough, there’s no room for magic 
What I’ve done to shrug pretty off my neck goes with me, one day
Growing tired of the prolonged reveal,
see the wolves before they don sheep's clothing 
Drew my clever tongue in the image of my enemies, long gone
Stones weighing down champagne silk, pure grit finds its way to shore

From: Maya

Julia’s Poem

Poetry

Julia asked for a poem that would make her feel focused, centered, diligent, and strong. She wanted me to use the word “watershed.” I was really drawn to imagery of hot lava… why? I do not know.

For: Julia

From the core outwards, magma flows
cascading into crimson watershed
brilliant molten lava, glowing lamp to light the way 
scorching out the road as planned
blueprint dreams hardened to ground work 
scaffolding that won’t rust
eagerly flowing,
and all this, from me

From: Maya

Jess’ Poem

Poetry

Jess told me she was feeling stirred up and felt like she was on the verge of change. She talked to me about movement and energy and wanted me to use the word “overgrown.”

For: Jess

first inclination was to 
splice together shards of vase, broke 
didn’t witness its form birthed on the wheel 
wet clay venus shaped by some hands
(who to thank for god-given wavering faith)
calluses overgrown, felt fingertip guidance to release
delicious, lonely tension before Vase kissed Tile
and the crashbang, wherein velvet parts collided,
particles speckled the floor and a shiny, new cosmos began

From: Maya