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  • Writer's pictureAmanda Jade Fiorino

Porous Becomings

Have you danced with the mountains today, or listened to the crickets from the space between your toes? Have you cracked open silences solemnly waiting in your womb, or let loose guttural articulations from your armpits? Have you gestured to the sunset of your intentions to make love with the night, and kiss the moon with your vulvan lips? Has your Adam’s apple tickled milk from your breasts as it dances with the song of a chickadee? Have you crawled on your knees to the place where clay suctions to your fingers, waiting to be pulled across your arm hair reaching out to lick at the cool dusk air? Have you felt all the ways the land challenges the solidity of your abiding identity? The ways it pulls at the frayed threads of an outworn self that’s barely being held together? Did you really think you were born to be homogeneous? Fixed in a binary, never to spill over like the river enveloping the rocks and licking at the grass? Are you still devoting yourself to the belief that your body is partitioned? Can you feel the place between your thighs that’s aroused by the springing step of deer cutting through the arching light? I wonder, on nights like these where my supple and contoured body feels the remnants of a starlit day, how we might compost cultural demarcations that reject the queering of our lives? That contort the stunning monstrosity of our trans-specied creature-ship by cramming it away into narrow chambers of concretized denial. My allegiances lie with a queered force; a force that does not draw lines of occlusion, and loves the shapeshifting multiplicity of life. A force that points at the fecund humus waiting to compost our neat and tidy conclusions. I bed down with the blurred edges of love-making, where my resounding aliveness articulates itself through screaming, grunting, growling, purring, scratching, hissing, pissing on dead flowers, gyrating against rough bark, snarling at grasping gazes, licking berry juice from my elbow-pits, resting my head in the lap of a fellow wombed one who strokes my hair, and sharing my dreams with horse shit as it slides onto the shiny red muck rake. I wonder, can you feel your porosity?

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