when the bodies of two love poets meet

I just walked the quarter-mile between a bookstore and a parking garage I’ve never once paid. In college, my friends and I would risk a ticket each time we came to town. Tonight is the only time I’ve not paid with permission.

The shivering of my hands, tears slipping on my cheeks, and snot dripping down my philtrum...I’m unsure if it’s from the frigid air (my car is off) or from the overwhelming amount of emotions my body is trying to share with my soul. Perhaps both have equal faults. After all, this is Iowa in practically December, and I just left a poetry reading. It marks my third experience of sharing a room with Andrea Gibson in Iowa City. I wish it only marked the third time that their honesty made me feel the emotions I try to suppress. I start therapy again on December 14, and this is a note to bring that up. I secretly hope my new confidant’s name is Julie; only Andrea Gibson friends will understand that.

All of you should understand this: today I woke up late, after a late night of making new friends who happen to be mutual friends of old friends and causes of heartbreak, and went to work to interview for a new position. I learned in the afternoon that I didn’t receive it. I left my same job early to drive to Iowa City for the poetry reading, hoping that sharing a space with the person who largely inspire(d/s) my writing in a bookstore which infamous writers have shared their views of the world would rest my soul.

Cue laughter here.

I knew otherwise. I just didn’t accept it. On my worst days, in my darkest moments, I’ve listened to nothing but the sound of my heartbeat and breathing against the screaming emotions of Andrea’s works. I find it therapeutic in the same way that some find listening to old, scratched records a reminder of good times passed. After all, “Andrea Gibson is kind of like Elvis but for queer people.” Mallory Hellman introduces her as such (the crowd’s reaction indicated agreement).

Alas, I also find oversharing and thought spilling to be forms of therapy. What did my degree teach me?

At the end of the reading, I waited in line to speak to the person who stirs up enough emotions to make me consider and then reconsider my experiences. I shared with them that an old friend was the first to show me their work, and that I like to think that was her way of coming out to me. Then I shared my recent breakup. I told them that knowing their poetry is what helped me understand the validity of that person’s need to let go. I told them that much of the work they shared tonight included phrases and words I’ve committed to memory because they grapple with emotions I can’t otherwise reach (I’ll mention that to my new un-named therapist too). And I told them that I sent the first, “Hi,”  in weeks in the middle of their reading because they told a story about the far-away state this person lives in, and I couldn’t not take it as a sign. They left me with words of wisdom & kindness, and a photo, in which they are looking at something in the distance aside from the camera. I think it’s beautiful for that reason.


It will serve as a reminder that we don’t always need to look at what it is happening.


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