Dangerous Compassions

bad books

trike slut

“Don’t you go writing more of those bad books,” H said.  He was watering our garden.  I peeked my head out the door because I thought the waterer was Ming.  But it was H.

“Did I write a bad book?” I asked.

“Yeah, I saw that book you wrote.  Over in Freedom House, on the table.  It has the f word in it,” he said.

“Oh, did I drop the f bomb?” I asked.  “Sorry about that.”

“Well, it’s too sad.  You talk about being fat, and you’re too sad,” said H.

“It’s ok–I’m good being fat.  I have no problem with that,” I said.

“No, well–that’s beautiful.  It’s just you’re so sad about it,” he said.

“Was I crying?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, sometimes we gotta cry,” I asserted.

“You don’t need to be so sad about it,” H said.

“It’s ok,” I said.  “If someone’s never sad, they’re just lying.”

H laughed.

“We’re all sad sometimes, right?” I asked.  H gets powerfully moody at times.

“Yeah, that’s true,” H conceded.

He was watering the brassiccas on the bench.  He put the water flowing lightly through the hose, like a fan of gentleness.


What bad books was he talking about?  Oh yeah, my last poetry zine has that long poem called The Miracle about rejection and being fat.

Yes, I was very sad then.  When Ming gave a copy of hat genius 24 to our friend N, he must have forgotten it at Freedom House.  That’s a really vulnerable zine.

Laura-Marie and my bad books.  It’s an honor to be seen by community and chastised so caringly.  And it’s a joy to grow this garden with the help of others.

“Community is like family, but more confusing,” I told our friend M.  “If that’s possible.”

We were standing in the driveway–he was on his way to mass.  I was telling him he’d mis-buttoned his shirt.  He thanked me and fixed it.

“It’s a bachelor mistake,” I said.  “They would just think you were charming.”

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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