Erika Jo Brown


Say again that my eyes are
auriferous. Like hazel darts
of knowledge on this bitch.
In South Africa, a necklace
is a tire placed round the neck
and lit. A necklace is a chain
of events. An aubergine is an
eggplant in England but no
thing here. To auscultate is to
listen to internal organs. Your
belly is simply symphonic.
My neck is an orchard. What
was once an cupboard becomes
an aumbry in the right kind
of church. When you know
what you know what I’ll
tell you I found in a book.
You need me. And I love you
too, nerd. Say again about
my nape, how it’s your nectar.
Neutrinos have a specified spin,
but not much else. A lexical
negligee. That needle of desire
and daily chores and death.

— on the occasion of my father’s wedding

Love is not epic. It happens to
hundreds of people every day,
like childbirth. Nothing is epic,
in itself, but then people unite
for a cause, and lifetimes become
epochs. The epicenter of our
experience is the heart, for better
or for worse. I’ve always been
attracted to the philosophy of
Providence—its faith in design
and queer properties. What does
it mean to be united? It is farsighted.
I read about amoebas that bonded
and bonded until boom—a single
organism, stronger than one flimsy
cell, and the bottom portion became
dead roots while the top floated to
destinations unknown. To fortify,
to correspond. Craig and Walter,
crags and welts, cradle and waltz,
cravats and crawfish and cranes,
wontons and walnuts and whales.
Epiphany—language is not enough
to contain the extreme possibility
of every day togetherness.

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