They were shades of nude. Earth like. Blending. Beige, taupe, oatmeal. Neutral. Sand. Or browns. Yes, there were browns too. Brown nudes.

Sometimes there was pigment. It hung there. For years really. Just in case.

The vanilla. Vanilla has flavor. All these disagreements about vanilla as plain or regular. It…

Image: Laurie Works

Oh water, give me your ocean, collide streams over cobble and under the solar eclipse. Moon greyed sun, mixture of twilight, dawn and dusk, moss covered rocks. A candle opposed to the lunar light. Green sleeping bag and her story. A mixture of blood and bath, spirit and soul, death and life but not nearly as simple as dualities, expansive, horn signalizing the sun emerging again because, and I will promise you this, the sun emerges, opens herself wide over the valley under the Tetons the sage brush field is alive. We are alive, earth is alive breathing fire, beating breaths. Here we are. Under the mooned sun. In a mixture of greyed light, a lens we have never seen before.

Jessie Po

Writer, poet, activist trying to resolve deep ancestral shame by being hella real.

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