What Language Our Survival Speaks

Hello good folks (and auto-follow bots). What a noisy, quiet year. Noisy on the input, quiet on the output. Almost every writer I know or follow has spent some (most?) of 2021 living on the writer’s block. I am not immune. I’ve lived there, too.

Just as the year closed out, however, I finally felt that spark. It turned into this piece for the Spoonie Authors Network. Called Welcome to Disability (a House with Infinite┬áRooms), it’s my letter to the folks with long Covid who are just finding themselves in our ranks, though I think it can speak to anyone who exists in this space called Disabled.

I hope to have more to share soon. I hope you are well. I hope whatever it is you love to create is only hibernating in these wild times. I hope. I hope. I hope. Because I can’t fathom the alternative.

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Dear Danny Tanner

In memory of the ersatz father figure I visited on Friday nights, here's my most rejected poem. Enjoy.

Dear Danny Tanner,

I know that this is sad
but will you be my dad?

I could be so bright and keen
almost like a normal teen
hang with bleach and Mr. Clean

I could press your fancy shirts
learn how starch and cling-spray works
label all my linen drawers
help you with your Sunday chores
live with you on
all
four
floors

I could help you
(oh so gently)
leave the closet
I’m intently
leaning closer for a word
that says you’ve heard my prayer
I promise I’ll be there

Forever
(just like Jesse said)
you’ll make me jam on whole wheat bread
we’ll read The Body Politic
and buy me binders and lipstick
I’ll help you choose your hottest pic
and write your dating ad

yeah

I know that this is sad
but will you be my dad?

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