— Tori McCandless

I am on the edge of something post-glacial. Which is to say, water is moving quickly. I’m watching the deluge, I say, but it’s OK. Thousands of miles away rosehips drop onto the sand. All over it is ache and apple, waxy bayberry, and the coming bloat of close-the-windows. I realize that I am homesick for a place I know longer know but I want to choose here. Moving away from the ocean towards staying, I ask to crawl into your bed. This is the ebb and flow of rooting.

In Mary’s apartment I notice abalone shells tacked to the wall: pearly hollows of blue-purple-silver. We are talking about bodies. We are talking about bodies on bodies. The petals and stamen that close in on themselves, becoming fruit, like our words that become this place, but this place also feels like the soft inside of your mouth. The tongue and hard teeth.

When you reach for my hand, I realize we are standing on the cusp of something continental. Our feet, riding the current of slow moving magma. The earthquake this afternoon serves as a gentle reminder that we are living on something moveable. That I too am moveable.

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