erica's feelings.
this is how i feel, on the first day of being 21 in a state of mind disconnected from both space and time:

i am raw earth
here is a shovel
with a man like an apostrophe
point and point and point
and dig dig dig
my knuckled bones are cliches
six feet deep and
ankles pouring out feet

two feet to carry me into silence
into bare forest defeat
like nothing and nothing
like a detour with no ending
and no place to start,
just trees for days

here is a body
here is a day
here is an idea
here is a faith
here is a mute mouth that licks you
and you feel the taste of minutes
at once acid with the enzymes exploding
then base and stark as dirt


who is it that feels this hand, my Erica?
i will tell you how my hand feels
one bone sticks to the skin then five, so
i can only think of skin cancer now.

but no, without my brain speaking to my hand
i suppose it feels the glowing energy
seeping into the pores over years of tending, shaping
to wash rags, hand cream, cold coins, buttons, an apple
some ex-boyfriend's turning cheek, the clicking of keys, the door, this sad letter,
as in this lifetime we become what we touch.

so i write to you in hope:

dearest Erica, if i could i would slide through the dimension to you
together we'd be a wild pangea or the Alpha and Omega
and the coming of the oars of small boats with miniature people
holding weaponry and pens, flag, color, and democracy
would row toward our island with immense effort
in hopes of finding new land to tread

we'd be standing there, you and I
our eyes closed, my hand in yours or yours in mine
the tide lapping at our feet stuck in the depth of the earth
with only the feelings united between us as our safeguard, our hearts
our love, and nothing else,
because nothing else is.