We

We
Me and all that share my life
-I’m talking about bacteria-
We have more bacterial cells in us
Than human,
More busy little independents
Living their own lives
Than dutiful citizens.

Not that they, bacteria,
Are lesser for this.
They are contributing denizens,
But maybe they have a streak of independence:
Spray painting the streets in self-expression,
Planting radical gardens
at intersections of the road,
Gathering their own communities around them
Rather than dutifully attending Sunday church.

When I say we,
I acknowledge us
-Me and my bacteria.

We went on a walk this weekend
And we spoke with our sisters
The trees
We felt part of them somehow
Words floating through the air
To absorb into their bark
Us and the sun, the sun is us.

Senior Intro

This super senior took three intro classes her final semester. Didn't realize that until today. Paradoxical? Ironic? Evidence of procrastination? Perhaps all three. But I don't regret it. 

I got to do ceramics, real ceramics, for the first time, with firings, glazing, throwing wheels and everything. I made at least one truly hideous mug, but I'm really proud of three of my mugs, with at least one bowl being pretty cool. None of my Six 6 inch cylinders reached 6 inches, of course, but their uneven amateurishness is somewhat charming. The process of glazing and then firing is truly fascinating, the transformation of a bisque fired and then dipped cup going through a final firing felt like Christmas.

I got to learn more about poetry, though I admit I'm much less in love with my words now than I was as a yearning and lonely teenager. Some of that poetry still stands out to me, though I understand if it doesn't appeal at all to anyone else. It was fantastic to submit my poetry to peer reviews, something I've not had access to before. I hope it has emerged better than before.

Finally, I got a formal and official introduction to rock climbing. I've been around rockclimbing as far back as I can remember. My dad and uncles used to climb up Logan canyon, and I remember accompanying them, though I don't remember ever getting harnessed and helmeted up myself, as a four-year-old.  My sister got into climbing from a class at Snow College, and between her and my good friend, I learned how to climb and belay during my own time at Snow College. It still took me forever to confront my fear of heights. I appreciated the formal atmosphere of a climbing class, it helped cement protocol such as Pull, Break, Under, Slide, and the initiating words of a climb into my mind. I feel more comfortable sportclimbing, falling, and being lowered down, though bouldering, ironically, is still my first love.

I think taking intro classes my last semester here at USU kept me in a state of beginner's mind this semester. Not a bad way to exit school.

Kitchen Counter Fish

My life in a fish bowl,
Perhaps,
Or wet looking on dry.
All of the orange blue wetness of
    my short life
How three girls, celery-stick
Fresh away from their mothers
Set me on the stained and peeling acrylic counter,
Underneath a dented cabinet full of ramen
And a collection of Walmart and thrifted plates.

How they wined and dined me,
Cooed over me,
Elbows resting on the counter,
Faces peering into my home.
I feasted for a full month
While a fourth looked on, less fresh,
Bending with the waves of life.

I ate three meals a day
Bulging round in their squareness.
And one day I burst,
Exploding orange on the cabinets
And counter
Loved as a grenade.
The thrilling conclusion of a
college apartment goldfish.

cranberry seed

 
A biker in lavender rain
Conflates the crate
That comes to rest on the rack.
Dithering, but emboldened
By the existential oil stain,
Craves its antithesis
Within the sense to conserve.
A ladder to the bottom of a lake
Covered over, transitory,
A river wending,
Remembering the town
Housed therein.
Pictures on drowned canyon walls,
The same idea as graffiti
By the dirt path?
All just insects,
Lint really,
A single cranberry seed
Suspended among
Written words.

Random mold find and subsequent existential crisis/realization

 I think it’s official. I might be a hoarder. 

I can’t throw anything away due to crippling climate anxiety and guilt (slight exaggeration, I throw away some things just fine). I hold onto the dumbest crap, both paper and plastic because ooooh I could make that into art! But ha, who the hell wants it and what’s to guarantee it won’t get thrown away eventually? Ugh.

I, a hen

 I a hen scratching on your heart

Will you let me in?

Will you feed me with the scraps of your day

Will you feed my hunger with your bright smile

I would give you colorful threads, snipped off from the ragged ends of all my moments

Blue

Red

Green

Saffron yellow

The color of sunflowers and the sun and Costco cheddar

The color my throat burns all of the time for want of your kisses.

A Poem

 Grocery list 

• Carrots 
• Celery 
• Sweet potatoes 
• Coconut milk
• Coffee cream
• Nutmeg 
• Spinach 
• Bagels 

Carrots, which I forgot

Celery, likewise

I remembered the sweet potatoes, both heavy in my hands

The coconut milk was not half-fat finally

I decided to try hazelnut coffee creamer, nondairy in the hopes my face will improve 

No nutmeg

Broccoli, for which Westley thanked me a week later

A bunch of spinach for better times, two hands thick, and for Daal on Monday 

Finally, bagels, because I ate the last pumpkin spice one. 

Baby zucchini and a little pear-shaped squash called chayote

Swiss chard, for an all-antioxidant lunch to follow

Eggs, caged, because Westley and I eat them like the Cadbury kind

Green curry paste: I can’t ever find red at this Smith’s 

And a clove of garlic, too late for April.