Angels, apples and addiction

good words by women for International Women's Day.

A reminder that I record all my Substacks, so you can listen to them by pressing play above if you don’t feel like reading.

Yesterday was International Women’s Day, and unlike last year, tonight I have no plans to go deep into what it means to be a woman and asking

Readers, it was a big weekend, I just had a big day at work and tonight I am very tired.

Through various events and moments this weekend, I was in the presence of strong women who have done much more than I have to make the world better. IWD is a good day to learn from others and think about your own life.

Me, Vanessa Alexander and Loretta Baker

On Sunday afternoon amazing writer woman George Woods and I hosted an IWD Poetry Salon at a pub where women read great words by other women they admired. I proudly shared “Power,” a poem I had memorized by Adrienne Rich, and also “The Women of Dan dance with swords in their hands to mark the time when they were warriors” by Audre Lorde. Tonight I’m sharing some words by other women, because sometimes being the best version of yourself is somebody else.

That’s right; I have no poems of my own to share this evening.

Some of these poems I heard other women read, some of these poems I was going to read but didn’t have time. Regardless, thank you world for women, for words, for letting us listen to one another.

Me, Jo, Naomi and George. I have so much admiration for each of them!

I wanted to start with a poem by my friend Gillian Swain that’s short, sweet, and shocking.

”Blood On Your Hands”

Blood on your hands
Isn’t always a bad thing
Women know this

And occasionally a few
Brave and privileged men.
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Writer and producer Vanessa Alexander came along and read “If Adam Picked the Apple” by Danielle Coffyn

If Adam Picked the Apple
There would be a parade,
a celebration,
a holiday to commemorate
the day he sought enlightenment.
We would not speak of
temptation by the devil, rather,
we would laud Adam’s curiosity,
his desire for adventure
and knowing.
We would feast
on apple-inspired fare:
tortes, chutneys, pancakes, pies.
There would be plays and songs
reenacting his courage.

But it was Eve who grew bored,
weary of her captivity in Eden.
And a woman’s desire
for freedom is rarely a cause
for celebration.
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Mel Gill read a beautiful poem by the late Andrea Gibson, “Angels of the Get Through”I watched the video version just now and held back tears.

I read a recent poem by my friend and fellow Substacker Joey Hespe. There’s nothing like a good heartbreak poem.

”If I only had a heart”

If I only had a heart, I might have kept you— held you the way dusk holds the day, reluctant, aflame.
I might have cared when you turned away, felt the undertow of your leaving rearrange the shoreline of my body.
My eyes would have learned longing, that quiet violence— wanting what was never meant to stay.
We would have watched the sun lower itself into flame, embers loosening into night.
I would have told you the truth then— how feeling terrifies me, how easily I ignite.
I would have let you crack me open, look into the ribbed dark of my chest where everything waits to burn. Let us reduce each other to what’s honest— embers, ash.
I would have traced your jaw like a road I already knew, left my mouth at your neck until memory learned pain.
Your face would have lingered— deep eyes, a knowing smile— held in sepia, as if already rehearsing loss.
But I shut it off. Locked it down. I learned the language of armour.
It’s ten o’clock somewhere, and you are already gone. Instead, I felt nothing— a perfected stillness.
If I only had a heart, you might have stayed.
-

Many people read poems from George’s book the tide will take it, which is basically the prettiest name for a poetry book I’ve ever heard.

I had two poems to share from a beautiful book HARDLINES Rough South Poetry, given to me by my dear friend Chelsea Maier. I was eager to share some southern women poems, but sadly our lineup was too packed to squeeze them. I will share them here. The last one is intense, a particular punch in the guts

The first one is by TJ Jarrett. (sorry it is not the best photo to read from.)

Lastly, and most devastatingly. (Content warning.)

”Addiction” - Sheryl St. Germain

in memory of my brother, Jay St. Germain, 1958-1981

The truth is I loved it,
the whole ritual of it,
the way he would fist up his arm, then
hold it out so trusting and bare,
the vein pushed up all blue and throbbing
and waiting to be pierced,
his opposite hand gripped tight as death
around the upper arm,

the way I would try to enter the vein,
almost parallel to the arm,
push lightly but firmly, not
too deep,
you don’t want to go through
the vein, just in,
then pull back until you see
blood, then

hold the needle very still, slowly
shoot him with it.
Like that I would enter him.
slowly, slowly, very still,
don’t move,
then he would let the fist out,
loosen his grip on the upper arm --

and oh, the movement of his lips
when he asked that I open my arms.
How careful,
how good he was, sliding
the needle silver and slender
so easily into me, as though
my skin and veins were made for it,
and when he had finished, pulled
it out, I would be coming
in my fingers, hands, my ear lobes
were coming, heart, thighs,
tongue, eyes and brain were coming,
thick and brilliant as the last thin match
against a homeless bitter cold.

I even loved the pin-sized bruises,
I would finger them alone in my room
like marks of passion;
by the time they turned yellow,
my dreams were full of needles.

We both took lovers who loved
this entering and being entered,
but when he brought over the
pale-faced girl so full of needle holes
he had to lay her on her back

like a corpse and stick the needle
over and over in her ankle veins
to find one that wasn’t weary
of all that joy, I became sick
with it, but

you know, it still stalks my dreams,
and deaths make no difference:
there is only the body’s huge wanting.

When I think of my brother
all spilled out on the floor
I say nothing to anyone.
I know what it’s like to want joy
at any cost.
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