Aging Photographs of Trinity Mills Road and the Queer Logic of Uprooting Trees

By The Maenad



Moody black and white pictures within me

Memories of my time in the lands of the dead men

Deadname for a dead land, populated by dead friends

A dead time, still dead inside, waiting to come alive

But still, life was denied for such a long time

Memories stain, remaining relentlessly in modernity,


Alive now I find a longing for a time to

Dip my toes back inside the black waters of the Lethe,

Cross the red river into the land of Howard and Jack’s killers.

Why the fuck would I want to return to a time when

I was not divine but slow upchuck on

Someone ELSE’s picket fence,

not _white_ nosirre (Never That, Don’t mention it.)

but still kind of dim, the kind that lays asprawl in the

tallest of grass, eager and a’wait to stick a rusty nail in you.


I don’t miss the cedar, mountain or other,

Actually juniper, I still wish it ill

to die, alone, to become un-cedar

unseeded cedar. Petrified lumber.

If you burn it repeats and

.

.

.

Until Gorgon forests are made of this,

nature’s most Texas mistake,

I shall not risk the hostile Atmospheres of Tejas.

It’s the gods damned mountain cedar

I fear not racists nor homophobes but those trees are

Choking weeds from the land of the last of the dead things.


If you visit this land, you fear you will never leave.

Sit on this couch, here by the Lethe

Or

Fee, Us why are you running?

You’ve hung on hooks before; this is only

a gently stained white wooden bench.



 

The Maenad

Age 50

From Texas

Currently residing in Seattle