Out the window I can see the cactus mommy has told me is good for washing hair, I can see the big mango tree and the bay leaf too. I can see the bird of paradise blooming orange and blue. A home that knows me.
A healing view. A patient sort of medicine. An old way. A new lesson. Good truth.
reasons to burn
i.
no water in the line
there is no water in the line
there is no water in the line
for bodies on the land
there is no water in the line
there is no water in the line
there is no water in the line
just bodies on the land
there are bodies on the land
there are bodies on the land
come and drink the water
come and drink the water
come and drink the water
does it burn
does it burn
come and drink the water
come and drink the water
come and drink the water
does it burn
does it burn
ii.
I have things to burn this body already alight these words ashen and weightless and offering themselves like dancers to darkened sky this quickening clock this tightened yolk this ship that will not port and will not port these borders and the walls that would enforce them this frozen tongue these slow feet this stage this pen this quiet voice
I will make a fuel of them
better than bitumen better than petrol
better than elephant tusk or drug lust
I filled myself with false fire once
only blinking before I was emptied again
I have put acres of rainforest up my own nose
burned money on clothes I did not wear
charred myself throat to belly with firewater that would not
extinguish a match and I have been thirsty ignorant naive but not
innocentcomplicit and complacentI have been
and seen time wasted
there are no renewable resources
not waternot shorelinesnot a hundred little boys in wet
red sweatersnot traditionnot treaty
not native tongueor trustor thirst
iii.
Everything can burn
I learn this
watching water ignite from kitchen faucet
I learn this
watching a man once mountain reduced to carbon
everything can burn
and all of us turn either to ash
or to dust
if fire is either lust or love
then I want to stop dousing myself in gasoline
as a cheap party trick
there are reasons to burn
and we have plenty
let me make of my words a fire
a purpose
a front line
a service
a choir
an engine
the matches
and the urn
just how some folks learn the blues
“There’s just something about the wide-mouthed women!”
I say, bashful over details of my latest adventures,
down the front of slim trousers and up the back of summer skirts.
My lover is coolly unsurprised; it’s all common tongue
for the young ones like us who shake
out our sexuality like boas shedding feathers up and down commercial drive.
But back in harlem, when the blues was all there was
between a big, black, bull-dyke and a wooden box,
wandering hands in restricted places landed some of the greatest voices of the day
behind bars barely thick enough to hold any of their wailing.
when ma rainey, mother of the blues, got herself jailed
for hosting an orgy with her chorus girls,
bessie smith bailed her out.
even now there are stories that it was ma who first inspired bessie to howl
it’s dirty … but good!
two BLACK renaissance women, friends,
singing about the thing that would have them jailed again and again.
both of them, with their men,
it didn’t matter, they couldn’t keep that song off of their lips.
the first time a woman kissed me,
I heard the music.
I was terrified that the moment she pulled away
my tongue would erupt into a clanking of pots and pans
right where the horn section was supposed to kick in;
exposing just how many lifetimes I’d been keeping my breath tucked
in the heels of my boots,
waiting for permission to sing.
when she asked me with saxophone tongue if I’d ever kissed a woman,
I wanted to be just as smooth and twice as brave,
toss back my head and laugh the names of deities who had danced across
my lips.
I didn’t want my mouth to quiver and crack
into a pile of pleading at her feet.
I didn’t want my hand to tap out an SOS.
as I reeled it back from the steady blade of her jaw.
I hope that my arms didn’t flap like mad,
untethered sails as she dropped me back into my seat.
In that moment, I wanted to be the even anchor of some
bad-ass, blues-fire bass line.
I wanted to BOOM-BAP-strut my way back into my whiskey throne,
with the ghost of ma rainey riding my tailbone,
and bessie smith lyrics
burned across the lids of my freshly opened eyes.
honey
I wake up in the big bed
on the top floor of mommy’s house the walls are birdwing and cricket-whistle
twirls from floorboard to ceiling every time I open my eyes kaleidoscope colours
tumble in
through the stained glass
I have a dream that you are an arbutus tree
and I am a rope swingI have a dream
that I am the ocean floorand
youareafarawayraft
that I am a quiet stargazer and you are the
WHOLEBIGSKY
that you are a fragile tent made of sprig and
parchment and I am a strong clumsy wind
I have a dream the staircase goes on forever
or we are eager fingers on the same hand
moving between the crookof some other
hungry limb or our bodies are open mouths
spilling madness like honey and everything
is golden because of usor my fingertips
draw the hummingbirds to our wet lips
I have a dream that you tell methe sea
isn’t nearly as dark or endless as it seems
so there isn’t any need to be worried
I wake up wishing I knew how I could return the favour
honey
I
kaleidoscope arbutusaway
fragile
I
Imoving madness
endlessasit seems
returnthe favour
couldthe
spilling
hand
birdwing eye
wind you afar
dream me
golden
confession
Down in the basement
brave animals test the corners of a room
pressing stone barricades against fresh bruises
here where we squirm/ boil/ wriggle/snap
I curve my lip to make the music of a mouse
slipping between the cracks into new safe darkness
you grin and growl
hungry as the cat who chased her
This is how it happened
distracted by thoughts of you
raised fleshthe feeling
of r
opes against my hands naked
belly/ breasts and palms
pressed into the cold top of the table
your knuckles finding my edges
that is a type of kindness too
I suppose everyone has their limits
every so often I catch a glimpse of you
in the window’s reflection
pondering over your tools
you kept me there/ for a long time
has it only been a day
your mouth the heart-shaped
bruise you left on my thigh
rug burn on that elbow again
it hardly hurts at all anymore
I felt your voice move in my body
is that why you crossed my mind
confession: I’ve been thinking about your mouth so much today
there’s this beautiful bruise between my breasts
confession: In the dream I’m both turned on and a little scared
my eyes are watering just thinking of it
confession: There is a crescent shape on the inside of my lip from where you bit me
I ran my tongue along the ridge of it all night
sometimes I hear my blood pumping when I look at you
can I ask you a question
did you have any nice dreams last night
when did you get off last
are you home
are you in bed
would you like more distraction
would you like that
are you up
can I ask you a question please
did you get off today
are you at home
can I touch you there
are you home
do you think I’m a good student
will you tell me a story about us
will it be a messy fix
would you like me to
what is your sign
want to know a secret of mine
I’m jealous of your hand
I’ll be thinking of you all night
I don’t want anything between us
that was how it happened
I started remembering and suddenly my hand slipped between my legs
you are very good at this distraction game
these fingers have a mind of their own
please/ yes please /yes /and also /yes please/YES
I enjoyed it very much
you’re welcome/ thank you /yes yes /thank you
yes thank you/ thank you/ yes
I really miss you.
godI wish you were here
how will either of us ever be productive again
that’s a legitimate question
untitled
The sun sank
as her counterbalance
lifted us into rippling skies
draped our faces in pink shades
of bright peach easter egg eyes
floated us across ourselves and into ourselves
waking us up to everything that was whispering
and glistening and drifting like oceans
hung high abovethis
is loveyou said with
open faceyes
I thoughtthis
is love
acknowledgments
This book could not exist without the rampant generosity of:
Arsenal Pulp Press. The BCAC. My dearest friend, mentor, femme-healer, and editor, Amber Dawn. My loves, Lucia Misch and Carson Welch. Azuka Nduka-Agwu and Udokam Iroegbu. Tanya Evanson. Alessandra Naccarato. Brendan McLeod. Alissa Powell. Jane Davidson and Boyd Norman. Chelsea D.E. Johnson. Alexis Wheeler. Curty-Curt. Vivek Shraya. Kai Cheng Thom. Lishai Peel. Erin Dingle. Melissa Brazier. Claire Love Wilson. Dana Kagis. Llana James and Anwar Knight. Desaraigh. Sonya Littlejohn. Zaccheus Jackson Nyce. RC Weslowski. Johnny MacRae. Wendy Welch. Mommy, Mum, Mama, and Daddy, too. Michael Timinsky, Victoria Scott and Tony Misch. Khari Wendell McClelland. Jasmine Liddell. Velma Spence. Aunty Vero. Melanie Mununggurr. !Kona. Morgan Switzer. David-George Morgan. Erin Kirsh. Duncan Shields. Dina Del Bucchia. Daniel Zomparelli. Billeh Nickerson. Sally Zori. And a community of poets, musicians, and clowns from Whitehorse to Melbourne. Thank you.
JILLIAN CHRISTMAS is the former artistic director of Vancouver’s Verses Festival of Words. An educator, organizer, and advocate in the arts community, using an anti-oppressive lens, Jillian has performed and facilitated workshops across North America. She lives on the unceded territories of the Squamish, Tsleil-Waututh, and Musqueam people.