all the things i hold there

don’t tell anyone else
(meaning: other potential tea dates)
i joke with silke about
the french press of
too-strong very astringent
tea i steeped
to accompany the srpawling
snack spread
(goat gouda, apple slices, tangerine slices
hummus, rice crackers, slightly milk chocolate)

i’m a believer in staying rooted
where you’re from silke says

satellite-shuttled exclamations
about the first bald eagle sighting
of the season
(from a car just out of the canyon
on a norteño new mexico highway
to a couch
along a front window
in a living room in north portland
i don’t know where they migrate from
she says

how today’s sun
makes biking any distance in this town
from here i patch holes in my
mental map of portland

turkey soup on the stove
paula gives as a reason
for returning and we slide our glasses
of tea across the table and take
sample sips of each others’

noticing how both the woman
on her mat next to me and myself
wear a ring on chain draped down our necks
hers: wooden
mine: metal/silvery
when the yoga instructor
says shoulder girdles
i want to cry
thinking of all the things
i hold in there
she also tells us
that we are the only country
that values/desires a flat belly
as opposed to other countries
that see it as a sign of well-fedness/fertility/abundance


it’s like you’re living
outside of the matrix someone says
about my 2008 pink flip phone
that for some reason on these travels
has become a conversation piece
over and over again

scent of sandalwoody (lavender) incense
seeping under the frank’s room door
while i couch-collapse, this week’s
mania finally subsiding
in the form of full-body exhaustion

in the tune of i feel like makin love
gina, through the kitchen window,

sings i feel like yoga
referencing my classic rock
yoga-in-the-livingroom-in-underwear session


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