Yes, poetry.
So, being a blogger during my three months at Hackbright didn't work out for me so much as working my butt off building an app that detects signs of human trafficking in sex ads did. There's more to come on that project, on my experience at Hackbright in general, and on my soon-to-be-adventures in finding a job that is well suited to my interests.
But for now, I'm leaving this here, mostly because I don't know where else to put it, and also because this whole crazy-wonderful Hackbright experience has me feeling especially thankful for the wonderful people in my life, both past and present, who have supported me, inspired me, and enriched my life in ways I can't really describe.
This poem has been rattling around in my brain (read: hard drive) for a while, and in an effort to start actually sharing the things I creatively produce, here it is.
Happy holidays, all.
Untitled
You let me in to your windswept interiors.
We built fires and doctored the world with the sounds of our dancing.
We scoured the stratified earth where we overlapped, and found stones that we fashioned into shrines for the demi-gods of our skeletons.
There were mollusks and coral and fish teeth
And stars and craters and sandstone
And we were surprised when, time after time, the pieces shrugged into magnetic fruition.
Flecks of rhubarb and Alaskan Fireweed
Alongside guitar strings and pixels and flattened pennies.
We even strapped on roller skates and took the whole tapestry for a spin.
And it blinked and twirled like a great constellation.
Sometimes it was heavy on our backs,
And other times it was the only thing between us and the biting cough of winter.
But most nights, it was a great, ever-expanding canopy
or a sail
or a wing
or a net.
When we were far apart, the whole thing became an antenna
We would each hold an ear to the far corners of the tapestry,
And emit amperes of signal to each other
All the while warming the world between us.
By the time we whittled our desires into entirely different shapes,
You had already built me a coat of clicks and whispers
And of rhubarb and roller skates and stars.
So in some unknown desert, under some unknown sky,
when I flip up my collar to keep out the cold,
I’ll still be able to hear the faint signal of your reply
The way that wind is silent
until it has a tree to breathe through
or a door to slam
or a sail to catch.
