The fog has rolled in thick in Portland this winter. Here's my fire escape, disappearing into it one morning.
Driving through it, I keep thinking of lines from what was my favorite poem in college:
By Audre Lorde
In this misty place where hunger finds us
I am too close to you to be useful.
When I speak
the smell of love on my breath
and it is easier for me
against myself in you
than to solve my own equations.
I am often misled
by your familiar comforts
the shape of your teeth is written
into my palm like a second lifeline
when I am fingerprinted
the taste of your thighs
outlined in the ink.
They found me wandering at the edge
of a cliff
beside nightmares of your body
"Give us your name and place of birth
and we will show you the way home."
I am tempted
to take you apart
and reconstruct your orifices
your tongue your truths your fleshy altars
into my own forgotten image
so when this fog lifts
I could be sure to find you
tethered like a goat
in my heart's yard.