dear intimacy of [theory],

Of which I make grooves in my skirt imagining all possibilities for wandering. These are the most precious parts of my days. When the forest can decamp without me, the place fleeing the person. I want to write these possibilities the way trees can rush forth into its most unknowable entanglements. Root defying root in its bind. In a sense, this is a love letter in which I, now forestless, am seeking you in the swarm. When I say [intimacy] I do not mean that every experience within me is forageable. I mean that a certain care can hold the water still enough and it is teeming with life. In bell hooks’ terms, [theory] as “location for healing” / “theory as intervention” makes the living something worthy of amassing. That is all I want. Your gratuitous sorrows falling out a bell sleeve, asking, How do I repair? Even as your sorrows parrot other sorrows.