photographs we didn’t take, Family Support Center, Olympia, WA: Family Album 2011-2012
Some point between the rape and the eviction I lost my libido. I stopped kissing you, slept instead on a mattress filled with mold, ears swelling to snap in a room so cold it shrouded words in steam. I love you, I said, three dissipating clouds. Our knees and elbows ached as we spooned beneath dirty comforters.
Later: a new state, a new mattress on the floor. Three this time, side by side, twin-sized plastic mattresses blue and cracked on a thinly-carpeted church basement. We slept, our child between us; strangers moaned and farted in the dark.
But even yet: they didn’t catch us, did they? The phobics, the bear. So sick sometimes we both thought I’d die, but I didn’t. We even married, remember that? I can’t remember if we kissed.
But then it rained all morning, that day between shelters; we wore wool coats donated to the church, me in rain boots one size too big that I’d found on a crooked bookcase. We waited.
I pushed you, against plate glass, cinder block. Pelvis to pelvis and chin to chin- wet wool, warm hearts beating in bone between us- I kissed you in the rain.
I love you, I said, my lips buzzing oddly from the pressure of yours. Let’s fuck right here.
- April 25, 2012
- (dis)ability, crossings, family, forgiveness, from Townsend to Tumwater, fucking, gender, healing, homeless shelters, interiors, joy, loss, love and other mixed bags, people and other frustrations, photographs we didn't take, rape, relationships, shaped by absence, social services, time
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