I hope one day birds will rule the sky againby Becca Glaser Everyone suggests okcupid— what we want from intimacy now. Everywhere the airplanes— their destinations and jet fuel, I just want someone who will make crepes with me on a Saturday morning, love me raw and worried, argue with me cuz conflict’s regular as pine needles. What whorled shells I hide in. Like the hermit crab I take what is not being used. Somewhere, acorns drop with definite thuds, another granite skyscraper is erected, a child grows without touch, a man trades his body for drugs, the politicians escape their crimes, a soldier hangs herself. Others say Get a Job, Go to College, Get a Trade— bookkeeper, lawyer, or Marry Rich. We are born when we are born. We have to dance with it, and whether corsetted by church, cocaine, career, or collards, our lives are made from scratch— from the body, where the os opens or the belly is sliced, we are born at that time and place where the stars are aligned, new toes, new nose. Maybe I wanted too much out of life, maybe I should have been more grateful, less sure. Sometimes I’d be satisfied just to sit at the Chinese restaurant stuffing my face and not apologizing. |