My favorite coffee shop sells UMPQUA prepackaged oatmeal. The oatmeal is made in Roseburg, Oregon. The Umpqua river runs through Roseburg, Oregon. The oatmeal is named after the Umpqua River that runs through Roseburg, Oregon. Roseburg, Oregon has a population of 20,000 people
My aunt Diana drowned in the Umpqua river in Roseburg, Oregon. Her body was in the river for 2 weeks and no one reported her missing. She was found 11 days ago by a fishermen. Her body was so decomposed that she could only be identified by her fingerprints.
I do not know how long the Umpqua oatmeal has been at my favorite coffee shop, but I only just noticed it today. It’s name, the same as the thing that swallowed my mothers youngest sister.
I do not know how to write about this. I do know that my mother is the old oak tree, and this grief is the unending axe to her body. This prison of appropriate conversation muzzles my mothers mouth shut.
How do you tell someone a story they do not know how to hear? The woman behind the counter asks me why I want to know what town the oatmeal is from. How do I explain why that river runs cold through me?
“I grew up near there- beautiful area.” I respond, and I walk away without a sound.
Sasha Banks (nothingrhymeswithsasha.tumblr.com) came to see me in New Orleans and all this happened. It was badass.
We’re cookin’ up a badass show for the New Orleans Fringe Festival. GET READY, Y’ALL.
ROSEBURG, Ore. — Authorities in Douglas County
say they’ve identified a woman whose body was found by a fishermen
last week in the South Umpqua River near the county fairgrounds.
The sheriff’s office says it doesn’t have the complete
autopsy report, but foul play is not suspected in her death.
The sheriff’s office said she was 44-year-old Diana Dallagiacomo.
Relatives in Chico, Calif. have been notified.
The sheriff’s office described her as transient, having moved
from Ashland to Roseburg recently.
It says a check of a nearby homeless camp showed
she hadn’t been there for two weeks,
but her disappearance hadn’t been reported.
Try to remember the body’s
when the rain stopped.
Before the water
the blood from
the bones, not yet
the buoy of the body.
the skin carries to the surface.
I don’t know which name
from the throat last.
The billow of bubbles
above the swallowed self.
The dirt dresses
until the naked
is all that is left.
Death is a matter
Place your ear to
the belly’s skin.
Realize that the body
It is not a thing of forgetting.
Some days my heart, woman.
It is the deep drawn airless vowel
of a whale’s song
sung to the salt.
A body underwater
imagine its gnaw
sucked under. The voice
billows through the wet
like a field of withered
chained to the anchor
of its own body
is a different
We do not have gills,
I know the heart wants
to swim home
to buck up its birth stream.
The water is a selfish
a prayer it
In the first story, no one dies. In the first story, no one loses any limbs and no one forgets to breathe. You get a house of violets. You get a vase of doorknobs from everyone that has left their door open for you. Even when it is dark outside you can see all of the people that have stayed in your house made of water and brick. After the first heartbreak, the men still smile. They do not smell of rot or mold or a burnt down house.
The second story is the same. Except this time, there is no one around. The house is still reeking of flowers and there is honey where the bees once were. There is no worry of the people that are not there this time. The honey is different this time. It is there, but it is tasteless. You have forgotten the taste of it, so you do not know that it is not what it is. It takes a whole life to remember the first story. It takes an eternity of rowing endlessly through the river. It is not until the third story that the river is overflowing.
You begin to breathe heavy and understand why the fish only have gills. Why the fish cannot row the boat, and you cannot swim beneath it. You begin to count each breath for the life that it is. The in and the outs of it. You understand the flowers now. You understand the honey and it’s birth from the belly of the bees. You understand the house and all of it’s knobs gone missing. You see the flames. You understand why the river swallows the things beneath it. You do not understand the rot.
You learn of the rot in the fourth story.
There never has been
a savage that devours
more than my mouth.
What is this body for
if not for mutilating
and mending again.
the season I burned down
every forest with my want/
with my/ weary unending song,
There was an attic of teeth
from all the biting back.
What am I
if not for
that are not
meant for wanting?
I am the most gritty heart.
I am the sandpaper
that edges out
I dream of softer skin.
I dream of cities that
I cannot turn to sand.
Of all the muscles
there is a reason why
the heart is the only one
we can hear.
Louis CK, I love you.
I’m home for your sister’s wedding
and I’m shaved head and college education.
Uptown apartment and organic oatmeal.
We are riding in your pick up truck
and you use the phrase bitchass fucking faggot
Your favorite story to tell is the one
when we were 5 and I threw up all over your lap
in the back of your father’s pick up truck.
Your 2nd favorite story to tell is of the time
my father ripped the telephone wire straight
from the apartment wall in a drunken fit.
It was fucking hilarious.
Today, 17 years later, you live in your father’s singlewide
trailer 6 city blocks from where we met and you
sell weed from your living room.
I live 3,000 miles from here and I use phrases like
white trash and stupid honky as if they were not once
the things the rich kids bludgeoned us with in elementary school.
I sell our childhood like a circus sideshow behind microphones.
We are both stuck in the apartment complex
stringing out our childhood like Christmas lights
on the trailer porch.
Here’s to 19th St.
1994. Here’s to all those years
we spent shoved in to the sardine can
Here’s to whatever it takes
to get out of it.
it’s a beautiful day to be bald, Tumblr.
So this is happening: Desiree Dallagiacomo, Carrie Rudzinski, and Katie Wirsing are touring together this fall.
Booking enquiries: Carrie@Bicycle-comics.com or on tumblr.
This Fall I’ll be on the road with two of the bravest, sweetest, most intelligent women I know. Katie Wirsing, Carrie Rudzinski, and I want to come read poems with you!
We love colleges and universities, festivals, theaters, living rooms, and backyards.
If you want this to happen, email me at email@example.com and tell me you want us in your world. We’d love to come.