My memories of life in the city. Wandering about, rudderless has left me open and vulnerable and indulging in needless acts of self hatred and self abandonment. Age has left me lost, and I have lost, a lot. Her name was Gina. We lived together in a flat in the Duboce. She had a laugh and a look one could never miss. Long skinny arms that I loved to touch. But Gina liked no one to ever feel her, anywhere. Loose pants held up by an old belt made of some unnamed fiber and a man’s tank. We walked everywhere and shared drinks and hummus. The cashier’s at the Safeway down the street called her “Sir”. Working at the Goodwill, she would bring me pretty things she thought I would like. Old curtains, handkerchiefs, candle holders. A brocade chair. Music and incense and dirty showers. Plants left to die. We visit Jack London’s farm and see his grave. We never kiss. She disappears. Youth passes as life draws you elsewhere. The back of me, I feel, has always been my best part. Observe it as I walk away.
Tara Lynn Hawk is the author of poetry chapbooks Rhetorical Wanderlust and The Dead. Her work has appeared in On This Path We Travel: Women Poets Writing About Feminism and Nature, Along The Way. Moonchild, Occulum, Rasputin, Deracine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Uut, The Cabinet of Heed, Spelk, Wanton Fuckery, Midnight Lane Gallery, The Feminine Collective, Idle Ink, Spilling Cocoa, Poethead, Poems and Poetry, Social Justice Poetry and more. "taralynnhawk.com"