She’s a space heater in his bed to warm
his cold, old bones. She’s a flower blossom
on the tree—plucked before her pliant, pink
body turned to soft and fleshy, sweet and
dripping, live-living and life-giving fruit.
She’s a caterpillar like a baby
blanket: fuzzy wuzzy to the touch. I
think of her and of the man who worked hard,
worked long, learned all the wrong lessons, and waits
for death with a little girl in his arms.
I think of her, and I think of her, and
I think of her, and I think of her, and
I think of me: who are we when we are
alone (in relation to nobody)?
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Jay Eddy is a writer, composer, and performer. The twin polestars of her work are violence against womxn and disability. She is working on an album of music and poetry, TELL ME HOW OLD I AM: a pop meditation on the aftershocks of sexual violence.
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