JLW & TJ
What does it take to truly change direction?
Are we going the wrong way?
How many instruments must fail us?
My feet are rooted in concrete.
Are mycorrhizae tickling your toes?
Are mycorrhizae signaling to the trees?
What can they tell through the soles of my feet?
What can they tell the soles of our feet?
Have the trees heard enough?
Have the trees heard enough of my future-inflection?
Have the trees had enough of my indifference?
The grass and the volcanic rocks?
Why should they listen to us?
When will we listen? Will it be too late?
‘I haven’t jumped a fence in a while like that’—she says
My feet might learn to play in mud.
Doesn’t the Bible say we were fashioned from mud?
Or am I mixing my religions?
I’d love to form a pig from clay—to place a poem
in its mouth, to hear it sing
I’d love to make a dinner set of pig bone china.
Dust to dust.
Or chew my bones, little pig
little pig … let me in …
That had better be one charming motherfucking pig
‘We are seeking to be here, doing this’—she says
My ears prick up like an old sow
We aren’t special
But we aren’t rubbish either
We just … are.
(Listening to our footsteps in mud;
listening to your landing on grass, a screaming
piglet in your arms; the swish of our boots, laughter—
the piglet calms. Thinking: blood, flesh, cartilage, bone, song.)
I see you, feel everything.
My care concerns itself with your self.
My soles are stroked by blue skies,
nibbled by puppy needle teeth,
and poked by roots bared by rooting pigs.
seeking to be here—seeking to be here—seeking to be here—
jumped a fence—jumped a fence—jumped a fence—jumped a fence—
a screaming—a screaming—a screaming—a screaming—
our footsteps—our footsteps—our footsteps—our footsteps—
prick up—prick up—prick up—prick up—
feeling grief and lightness in one
it’s life in common with nature