My mother wasn’t opposed to me taking a man from the sea. But she was adamant that I choose another place to do it. The man matches the water, she told me. So, you had to pick your water carefully.
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I stand at a rainbow crosswalk in Northampton, MA. The crosswalk turns into upright bars; now I’m in a rainbow prison. I think it’s beautiful in the prison and write a poem about it.
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She thinks it still holds the smell of the forest, that every time she runs the cloth along its body some echo of fragrance comes away in her hands, but she knows she must be imagining it. She doesn’t really believe that, after so many years of being tamed, any echo of wildness could still exist.
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