by: Hilary Brown
It intersects at incongruous places, now crosscutting
humor, which has always been what you supposed
a parallel. It brakes and slows and finds itself
ridiculous. There you are, crying on the toilet,
and grief is there, pushing your hair back
out of your eyes, asking you whether your lost one
would like that new holographic lip gloss
or how it feels not to be able to send her the picture
you took of a kestrel, the unexpected soft red
of his breast. Ever sarcastic, ever tender, ever
speaking in your own voice. Your new companion,
marriage indissoluble and only mundane, a partner
to watch during breakfast over a spoonful
of softening cornflakes.
Hilary Brown is a writer and activist living in Oakland, California. Her writing explores themes of body deemed dangerous–queer, disabled, female–and the embodiment of god in nature and humanity. She seeks to celebrate what is too rarely celebrated: the necessity of decay, the simplicity of pain and healing, the slow process of becoming.
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