v u l v a l i c i o u s
This town will fall in love with you.
A population shifting daily, up and down by twos and tens, hundreds, a thousand in a day. The faces of women, naked and bright, bodies moving as they will. The trees wrap around everything, enclose the world. This land is a dream, a fantasy, a wish that was made enough times to be brought to life. Theory into practice. More complicated than it wants to be, stickier as the years pass. And yet when time holds itself just right the problems seem manageable.
My beloved community. The work of hands, so many strong arms lifting and pressing and holding steady. The rain comes and we press on, hold tighter. I say that we can have the difficult conversations, and I believe it. This is what we do, not just here, but everywhere. But maybe especially here, now, when the world around us feels as though it's caving in. Our bodies hold against the rocks, against the crush and crumble. Even as we dwindle we grow stronger somehow. Talking, talking, now holding hands.
There is a way that we greet each other, a soft nod of recognition. I never know if I know you from here or from elsewhere or from nowhere at all. Sometimes it feels like our hearts are friends, and words tumble out, and the piles of leaves and little mushroom colonies seem like the right place to leave them. Our kinship grows around us, a compost pile of thoughts and words, and the way you take my hand as if it is the only thing that makes sense. And we feed the ground and it gives back to us. I am surrounded by medicinal plants and an aching green. We are rooting down into the ground, connecting ourselves for something bigger than this moment.
I leave but without truly leaving. My heart hurts, but continues beating. Earlier I pointed and said, you are here, right next to chocolate. This place is there, hooked under muscle and hiding so that it can't be extracted without great effort. In the map of my heartspace, I make new divisions, draw lines that weren't there and erase the ones that don't count any more. I take out one small piece, just a corner, really, and bury it on my last walk. It is just by the trees that cross the path, half past the wide half stump that is covered in soft moss, not so far from the main road. And so I am gone without leaving, one part of me there and all this love inside of me, so much I think it must be spilling out the sides a bit.