dust climbing the sides of the truckbed
you tap the steering wheel as we sing
old country songs that taste like sweetened
whiskey
i love her and she loves me
remembering only in the back of our minds that
i did not choose her and
she did not choose me
damnit. you calling and always making everything okay is a chronic problem. for me to handle our biz, i need to stay angry. i need to channel rage. i need to be uncompromising and infuriated about this mess. i need to let this boil until i blow up.
you make that impossible.
you leave cute little random messages on my voicemail. you send me a series of texts that speak to our purpose and why they just don’t get it. you and i scheme about plans for next year. you ask for a fellow collective member’s address so you can send her a get well card. you share a poem with me.
so many issues that need to be dealt with but i’m so delighted to be in community with you, i can’t even really be bothered by it.
can you see why this may be a problem?
reality is this man flirting with me
just to pass the time
two hour paratransit ride, we passed boredom a long time ago
his game would be so much better
if he had a poem…
Cripchick is a powerchair-roaring, young queer disabled woman of color. She grew up on an army base in the South for 18 years and continues to live (and love) North Carolina. She has been a disability/crip youth organizer since high school. Cripchick is crushing hard on popular education, radical women of color feminism, and people practicing liberation & interdependence.