to meet the other

morning oatmeal mica-style
in a pint jar to go
that i toss in my pannier before pedaling
off to meet the other writers
the sandy mud that glomps onto my bike
and bright orange shoes
from walking through the puddle or two
at the gravel road bottoms
even though i rode in the back way to avoid the mudtastraphe
on mercantile porch table
we write from magazine scraps
and this is where mine  gets me:
in the beginning, there was a gun.
hot to the touch our cool, depending.
in the beginning, we were blasted through with a bright red heat.
in the beginning, it was too late to still be learning
what fire is.
unnamed phenomenon:
the way a train
cutting through sunrise sounds different
on a wet morning after a night of storms
than on a dry morning after days in a row
of no precipitation
how baigz pulling the weathered cart
piled high with hay
across lookfar field in his loose white button down
and black rim glasses and
against the gray near-storm sky
look like a diferent place/different time

taking scissors to the lilac-and-white gingham apron
in the scrap box to make
a rag for wiping the grease off my bike chain,
how i swear i remember becca in that apron
15 years ago
wearing just underwear underneath
the night sandhill hosted a hilarious/ridiculous greasy diner/rude waitron
tyler holding up the gallon of
vegan mayo bought
for $3 as i
wrangle the hose to hook up
to the outdoor shower
how at first i’m adverse to the
not-quite-sunwarmed waters
but after the initial cold shock
it is the best medicine
for washing off the
hay itchies,
for blessing myself clean
tasty yums emory says we should
call our favorite roll recipe
(insted of the name we commonly know them as:
tasty buns)
the scrowly meows of
a cat at my window as the lightning lightnings
and the thunder thunders
and the rain showers down
from the water world:
A man walks his donkey and its load through the flooded streets of Beledweyne, north of Mogadishu, Somalia. – voice of america, day in photos


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