Dangerous Compassions


I’ve been on my period for three months. Erik said, “That must be draining.” I’m sick of it and know why it’s happening. But I’m going to the doctor if it’s not done in… one more month. You hear that, uterus?

We went for a walk before it started to rain in earnest, the route that passes by the old folks home. Several old folks were at the big windows. Some were sleeping, and some were looking out. A men’s table and a women’s table. I felt so young and alive. Do they envy me for being young and healthy, or do they insult me for being fat, or do they hate the sight of me? Do they look outside for the trees or cars, or are they wanting someone happy to pass by like me? I don’t wave, but I kinda smile.

We brought the umbrella with a wooden handle to play with. Erik has ways of playing he learned from being a boy. The umbrella is to twirl or be a sword–the umbrella is a lazer to zap things. I have ways I learned from being a girl, or from movies. I mostly just swing it by my side.

Erik was explaining to me the nature of reality. I said, “What are you talking about? Your shirt’s on inside out.” So he turned it right side out and found seven dollars in the pocket from the last time we went over a toll bridge and paid with a 10.

I’m working on a poem called “teacher” that may or may not be too chatty and may or may not go into the waste paper bin. I post a picture of Erik in the redwoods.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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