We Run Like Trees

After Danez Smith

Dream mountains—blue, purple, gray.
Green valley, copper sky, white sun.

All the sick girls are here. Boys too.
But not as ghosts. Not shadows.

No one lurks, haunts. We’re real.
Thick. Bright, with neon outlines.

Bright as Times Square. No fog.
No mist to swallow our heads whole.

Here, we keep our heads.
Our brains are fast as trains.

And yes, some have their chairs still.
We know what you think.

You’re wrong as rain. We zoom, we tear,
fast as bullets. Others run, if they want,

if we want, with bare feet. Here,
the sun is cool as water.

And no one’s name is Pity.
No one’s eyes say Shame.

And love isn’t luck. We’ve earned love,
with our beauty, our big worth.

We make love in thrones
of onyx and silver.

Once we were named for doctors.
I was named for a Danish man

who poked and prodded, then thrust
a flag in tired flesh and said, Mine.

No more. Here, we speak no Latin.
No one’s name is Syndrome.

We name ourselves for rare beasts.
This girl, Zebra. This boy, Unicorn.

Our fur, black, white and ivory,
catches the sunlight like polished pearls.

I run. Unshod. See the dazzling white
bones of my feet, how they grip

each other like lovers in moonlight.
Here, there is no feeling

to call sick, no perception to call pain.
We run like trees, rooted, tall.

When we tire, we wrap ourselves
in our own arms, and fall asleep,
laughing.

JAMES LIPTON INTERVIEWS MOTHER EARTH

ON INSIDE THE ACTORS STUDIO      

“I always wanted a big family,”
says Mother Earth, “and I guess I got one!”
Lipton turns to the acting students,
laughing, hunched, no neck at all,
and spreads his hands as if to say, God,
isn’t she wonderful? The students laugh
and applaud. I don’t laugh. Anyone
can be a mother. Almost.

The camera cuts to the audience
and I look for Bradley Cooper.
I saw him once, in a rerun
from his student days. His hair shone
and his cheeks were ruddy. I am pale
and skinny, running to fat
around the middle, my skin tinged blue
like a drowned girl.

The camera cuts back to Mother
Earth, skin of tree bark, eyes of rich
soil, and babies attached to all of her nipples.
Fruit spills from her hair like Carmen Miranda.
I saw a documentary about Miranda once,
called Bananas is My Business.
She got pregnant, but miscarried
after a show. She began drinking,
getting high on amphetamines,
and died at 46.

“I would be remiss,” murmurs Lipton,
his head bowed in orgasmic submission,
“if I didn’t ask for—perhaps—a song?”
The students clap and grunt.
Mother Earth rises and lifts her arms.
She opens her lips, which are two fat
pink fish that wriggle with life,
and out of her mouth spills a waterfall
of red flowers. The students jump
to their feet, shouting, Brava!
If Bradley Cooper is there, I’m sure he loves
her, wants to marry her, make babies.
Fish-bitch.

I find the remote under a pile of laundry,
gulp my whiskey, and turn off the TV.

Silence.
I run my hands over my belly.
Ashes on dead embers.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
A place to die.

Like Carmen, singing from the grave
with a basket of withered fruit on her head
and her hands full of dirt.

Victoria Mack is a disabled and neuro-spicy writer, actor, and teacher who splits her time between Savannah and Brooklyn. Her work explores illness, disability and ableism. Publications that have featured her work include Sequestrum, Minerva Rising, Papeachu, Honeyguide, Oyedrum, Kitchen Table Quarterly, The Field Guide, The Jewish Literary Journal, Beyond Words, Oddball, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. Her short play “Three Women” was produced in Philadelphia. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Award, and she is a fellowship recipient from the Catwalk Art Residency. As an actor she has performed in film and television, on and off-Broadway, and all over the country. Her MFA is from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and her BA is from Barnard College. www.victoriamackcreative.com.