Little Golden Threads

Motherfucker.

Mother. 

Gutter. Goddess,

Hear my prayer.

The boundaries aren't on the outside,

like chain link and razor wire,

them boundaries be on the inside,

and they stick like cleavers.

I sat in the anarchist space,

pushing my boundaries out,

    flexing.

It was hot in there,

the zines covered the walls,

my eyes focused on the one for talking about consent.

The meeting began with the serenity prayer like always.

Our words addled rich phonetics, rhythms of sobriety, our mouths moved with dry pitches of swelter and sweat.

Mud hung on my boot from Oaks Park.

My sweat stunk. My cigarettes stink. I sat in my sweat in the folding chair.

      We talked of gratitude.

      We talked of sanity.

It is this golden thread sanity.

It is the threads that floated in the air at the park. Attached were green larvae, falling from the oak trees softly. The silk thread picked up glints of sunlight, and stuck to our hair and faces.

I picked buds of medicine from the mud.

The buds of medicine sat in the spaces between the folding chairs,

hovered above the tacky floor.

The medicine was exchanged

in the backroom       to be delivered with clean needles,

they    shoot     up      out      back –

And we say the serenity prayer.

We smoke and hear the parties . . .

on the tongue of that summer stuck in waffle cone, coating the tip of buds.

And the street lights pop on when

I stride down Lombard –

carts lit up – the golden arches lit up.

I hear the beats of my heart in my headphones.

My bus comes as life goes by in a Nissan with no lights on,

and we break our little gold threads

until we meet again,

Amen.