Notes

• Until the handkerchief of history covers us with its times new roman black and white post script, I will wear lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms, looking like art deco in my September complexion. And red against blue skies and have these pictures taken to be proof against the dull room temperature high school history teacher that we wore color, that we scattered the seeds of dead dandelions in cement surrounded city parks. That we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science. That we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl and never combed it and put it in braids. That we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans so that we had something honest to dance to, something soulful to sing to. And sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window, because it was dark outside and the florescents inside left shadows under our chests and sculpted the torso to look its Friday night fittest, yeah I’m vain. There was life here before there wasn’t, and before that, there wasn’t. But seagulls still ate shallow water fish, morning glories still cast tall shadows, and all the while the stars are slowly separating. -Why?

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