dear solo traveler,
I am composing by line as she told me.
Each capital being either the surface of the water or a head of state
places to begin or end or places that end you or where the infinity of self becomes an infinity of many. Soft thud of a traffic light on snow in the middle of the night, a firetruck blush that stops and starts. Ashes in the bread. What it means to escape with guns and without anything else. If your bed is an inversion table, and your blood is a clatter of hoofbeats over cobblestone streets.
dear solo traveler,
let me begin again.
What I meant to say is that the bridge is two things at once: available to two dimensions, two ways of seeing. The narrative itself begins a narrative. And yet the narrative's narrative is not about triumph or defeat, because both sides are its own. Begin the web in the middle of open space. We can either do this dead or living. So many bridges crossed without ever a thought as to what was underneath them. I need enough bodies with stones in their pockets so that I can walk across them
And yes as you said, this is just the right vantage point to watch the water cross me. Maybe you were not
when the boat was turned into a bed. Or what mirrors are used for
in the language of the bridge everything is a verb
something done in relation to
one arbitrary point in space
which is a birth.
as arbitrary as birth
The stars travel in relation to each other at great distances.
Think of a moment as something that expands
as a pool of dye does in water.
Think of us as the recorder of echoes
these the evidence of laws and life. Think of my conception in the splashdown pool of a waterfall, think of the blood expanding
Imagine that all this time the water have also been moving on.
And that there have been people trying to stops it. Imagine wind also does not give a fuck about triumph. Then imagine you
in the not too distant
Take this idea and fold it under your idea of present
like a napkin. Do a trick in which I think I am holding the ears but end up holding the tail.
Take my socks off without noticing.
s o l o
Here in Washington Square Park there is a fountain. Water cycles upward and down.
As it has for over a century. And underneath this park they used to bury people like us.
When I wrote in Victoria an orange cat sat on the porch across from me. A man wanted to
jump from a nearby building but they talked him down. From a nearby powerline crows
lit and flew lit and flew
as if a string of code against infinity.
Gaia Thomas holds an MFA from Mills College and is a 2019 Zoeglossia Fellow. Her work appears in the anthologies Writing for Life, We Are Not Your Metaphor, and Godiva Speaks. Her chapbooks include Aloft Alight and Cut from the Body.
She lives in California with her girlfriend and a well-respected cat.