the first time I queen’s cup sucked his cock he immediately began sticky cinquefoil rhythmically pushing my head mountain lady slipper down hard without saying anything elegant cat’s ear resisting this did not cross my mind the gag fairy bells reflex was almost overwhelming with difficulty devil’s club I was able to master it and complete checker mallow root the act prince’s pine I’ve always been good under pressure I remember being sugar scoop very concerned that the tiny water leaf pre-vomit noises I was bleeding heart involuntarily miner’s lettuce making would be a turnoff I remember having to curl pearly everlasting my upper lip around my front teeth to prevent my them silky lupine from scraping smokey plume his penis (I had little control rosy pussy toes over my head’s movements) afterward avalanche lily I tasted blood from where false salsify my teeth had made gashes on the inside of my lip thimbleberry the first and only time he went solomon’s seal down on me: after a couple vanilla leaf seconds he said “gross” twin flower and stopped my only twisted stalk response was to laugh and smile and blue eyed mary stroke his hair my goal in this was to eliminate monk’s hood any feelings of awkwardness he may have felt and make it clear death camas I didn’t blame him, and thus hopefully pathfinder mitigate the arnica damage.
he would make twisted wreaths of his fallen out hairs & leave them on the ledge of the shower / he nailed a dead hummingbird to the front of the house / he was an anarchist / he was raised southern baptist / when we argued he would come over to my side if he thought I was right / once an angry driver ran into him during a picket / he had t-shirts with graphics from novels he liked / he tinkered / he had a motorcycle / he went mad & microwaved his hard drive / he played piano & sang an improvised song about industrial contaminants with the refrain “ooooh... cancer” / he was jewish but his family had changed their name to Gates / he didn’t masturbate for a year when he was 13 because he was told he would go to hell / as a teenager in rural Tennessee he made a pipe bomb using the Anarchist Cookbook & was investigated by the FBI / he studied math / he admonished me to use the correct bike repair tools / he was honest / he was flawed / he was game / he wore black & had a leather jacket / he went running & had a rich father / he had brown curly hair / he was good looking / he loved coffee, cheese, & milk / he had a recipe for tacos: cold flour tortilla, wasabi mayo, deli meat, slice of cold cheese / he loved Go but had no one to play with / he raced bicycles / he was a good friend / he recommended I bring summer sausage camping / he asked me how comfortable I was with symbolism / he taught me to pick padlocks / he played the chord progression of Get Lucky, gorgeous, on piano, but couldn’t remember what song it was / he tried to get a tattoo of sola veritas (only truth), but ended up with sola vertias (only revolving, almost) / he didn’t say goodbye / he chose to die when he was 26
Grace Covill-Grennan is a carpenter and poet living in Portland, OR. She received a BA in psychology from Reed College. Her writing deals with themes of femme experience, family trauma & relationships, love, memory, death, embodiment. Previously, her poem "Historicity" was published in Haptic: Zine of Distituent Works. In her spare time she enjoys anarcha-feminist political organizing with a focus on anti-rape/abuse support and education work, as well as natural dyeing and spinning wool. Her political work and love of plants and the natural world inform her outlook and writing.