Jay Besemer

some of it comes back to me. the things we used to say. merry meet.

merry part, & merry meet again.

how i buried my cords in the red dirt where the scrub pines cried under the sun’s claw.

how i walked away.

but i never walked away. blood of mine under the red dirt, in it, become ants around the fire circle, become feathers in a hawk’s tail, become a dog’s red coat. there is no walking away. the earth

is a sphere.

how we get from here to there is still a mystery. you think there is only choice. choice depends upon exposure. 

i kept the knife my father & i made but i can’t feel its story. it is not what it was, no more than i am.

(my blood itself is not what it was.)

what sowing of blood did i do? what did i do? what harvest now emerges beneath the scorch of intention?

(my skin is new skin.)

what did i sacrifice to burning, just another type of radical transformation, both process & result?

(my sex a new sex.)

goodbye cakes. 

goodbye wine.