Fruiting Body — Abby Buchanan

Her name is Joy.Never a momentmy fingers couldn’t find herin the dark.She is pigment,paper,eyes and hands.And maybe I am the artist.But maybe I’m not.Her ovaries flash like opals.She will always attemptone more heartbeat.She will always attemptone more breath.Of all the formsthat populate the earth,what if she’s the only onewho knows she won’t live forever?That no amount of pleading,new tech,or face creamcan make this form immortal?She knows that she’s madeof the bones and feathers and applesof her comrades on earth.She knows that she will return to themand be reformedagain and again.And this timeshe said yes to me.First becoming two:unbothered orb,master of the tide,frantic swimmerdetermined to survive,gathering speeduntil they collide—merging againwith herselfand with me.She’s definitely been a glacieror a redwood before.Her ability to be walked like a dogand not lose her dignity.Her welcomeof this form whereinfinite rivers,carbon,chlorophyllbecome eyelids, organs, bone.Where her canyons and bark and ivoryare now singularswirls and grooveson the pads of her fingertips,formed by pressing her handsagainst the wallsof my mother’s uterus.My fingerprints.To think that I’m decidingto give her a say in things now,now that I’m halfway through.That she’s waited this long,indulged my heat and recklessness,borne with my ignorance.I have the strange honorof being the placewhere she meets a souland these ancient onesadd one more shapeto the universe.And the hell of it isI was so underprepared.The hell of it iswe are all underprepared.And the only way to learnis to put them both through the wringer.Which I do.Good thing they knowhow intoxicating it isto think you are invincible.Good thing they knowwhen enough is enough.I like the powerI think I have.I don’t likethat she’s submitted to meall these years.And then I do.But they are teaching me.They are allowing meevery drop of powerI imagine that I have.They tell me it’s timefor my turn.And in the momentsI forget I exist—when I softenand stretch open,becoming morebridge,channel,sacred grove,meeting place,less gatekeeper,guard,or a tyrannical toddler king—the real fun begins.Sometimes I pretendI don’t careso I don’t implodeor incinerate.I am not the teacheror the student.I am the classroom.I will never be impervious.Or reallyeven durable.I am wildly at the mercyof my environment.I am so easily afraid.I am stunnedby the way I transcendthe skull that holds me,by the way gravity and timecan’t touch methe way they touch her,by the way I feel infiniteand the way that’s almost true.But thenI am afraid again.And I feel the needto protect her fromdisapproving glances,bad weather,mice,loud noises,late bills,minor inconveniences,newness,boredom,freedom,exile,and unfamiliar foods.She will go onwith or without me.They both will.But this fragile meeting—where a soulwith all its fireand the ancient earthrendezvouswithin the paper-thin membranesof a consciousnessand give themselves to mewith all the trustI have not yet earned—is the stupidestand most extravagant thingI can imagine.That they chose this—chose me,made me,and need me—the fertile void,becoming somethingtemporarily singular,temporarily alive,with hazel eyes,big feet,who is learningnot to be so hard on herself,who is splitting the differencebetween nothing and everything,who sometimes rememberswhoand whatshe is.