Think of the accounting of any meaningful legacy, all of the lives that uplift our collective spirit have one thing in common: they are defined not by what they had, but by what they gave.
The discomfort of a beetle on its back, swinging its legs is not the kind of discomfort I am looking for. My discomfort is more like writing on the edge of what’s known, and what’s been said, and what’s ok to say.
Maybe both the nuns and the hoaxers are trying to connect, to form a community, through vastly different means. I know which I prefer, but perhaps what drives them isn’t really that different.
I hope that these poems do not have answers but give rise to thinking around the sets of problematics in the mixing of sweat, spices, sucrose, and languages where the act of consumption evinces history archived in the body.