The original publication can be viewed here.
Note to self: at least I know I couldn’t have been an accident
I have this tendency, call it the glass is
so close to empty, call it I can only remember absence
and not the substance before the gone.
I do not remember my mothers’ together.
Each, separate, alone.
As in, how do I know an end without a beginning
I know the beginning. But in sum:
There once was a woman and a woman who
Probably maybe loved each other but were mostly
So alone they needed someone.
Can accident be defied as not planned well
Or is it simply unplanned?
If I do not know the beginning, but I claim to know
The end, do my words have any value?
Or do I exist at a re-memory foundation.
Like the concept
Of empty only exists when one knows full
Like I should say first they met as roommates
In a hot tub drinking whiskey
on a softball field with a bat
at a bar with mutual friends.
But I know this is not my beginning.
My beginning is pain—for what is a queer
Without sadness and movement. The queer
As synonymous for being alone.
I come from empty.
From too late.
From we fucking need something.
I wonder, what do I know of divorce if I do not
What if my understanding of together is to simply not be alone.
What if my understanding of family exists in its absence.
In an absence that sparks together .
What do I know of love
If my mothers are afraid to hold hands.
My understanding of father only exists in the absence of one.