Outrun

from the wild soul 'river voice' writing prompts

Outrun

“The thing about women from the river is that our currents are endless. We sometimes outrun ourselves.”
―Terese Marie Mailhot, Heart Berries: A Memoir

a form of memoir shaped between 2001 - 2016

I am where my throat splits
where the cold water burrows down
bores holes into my heart over years that pass like centuries

I am where inner rivers tunnel
where light snags the surface as if I were made of broken glass
look how pretty I bleed

I am where it could go either way
a girl’ll take the banks or leave ‘em entirely
and I’m just telling it differently this time

raw and red where espophogus meets stone
swallow the rage, honey
drag boulders down with spit
even when rough edges stick, choke, lodge in what once was a voice

I cough with a sound that’s half gag
and everything acceptable goes sliding to the right
trickles to Lilith’s threshold, where she sifts and clucks her tongue when she’s done weighing me
spits each syllable out like a rotten tooth
cocks her bored head, patience worn thin
asks for something of substance
something with poisoned barbs
or a belly that distends
now that she could work with

but I was raised with a check in my throat
an act of evolution passed through my grandmother’s side
we let it out, I guess
but we leak instead of flood
pool our words passive aggressively in the hollow of our throats
not drench the front of our shirts
so I have little to offer Lilith when she asks
and she does not stop asking

I have found where my throat splits
where the water of an inner river has carved another hole to the left
dark ceynote
pool of nothing where my best words go to die
void I feed my rage to, my ache to, my shame to
until I, like all my mothers, am an expert at outrunning the currents

the nothing snaps violent teeth
grown used to devouring the worst of what I might have said
if I’d been raised without that evolutionary tilt

for years, I let rivers of voice slide down a slick hole
drop into a place without a thud, a splash, a tap, a note
I don’t even make a sound when the void swallows parts of me
whole
a silent, bruising impact to make pain seem polite

Lilith is sick of me
sick of it
sick of weeding through civil ways of saying
fuck off

she rolls her eyes, pulls my hair without force
tilts me nearly upside down, so the left side of my throat
opens like a hot air balloon
widening with heat, the more I rise
say it like that, she says
and I consider all the times I wanted to
but didn’t
all the ways I half-smiled instead, stayed willfully confused or dismissive
all the careful lessons of learning to avoid what might happen if the right word concussed the wrong man

but I am upside down now
the left side of my throat a cavernous maw
and Lilith is pounding against my back
asking if I’ll release what is still me from the nothing
asking if I’ll finally fucking say it, for once let it flood, so at least then
we have something barbed and dripping, something bloated and true to work with

//Wild Soul ‘River Voice’ Writing Prompts

---

I write and work from the fertile soil of Kalapuyan land near the Multnomah River (now widely known by a settler’s name). Almost every word has been written from my backyard with my bare feet in the grass or from my desk to the sound of rain. But every word is woven with reverence for the people who carry displacement in their bones and who will someday be the rightful stewards of this land again. I recognize them as the original storytellers of this place (something I have learned from Holly Ringland), and I hope the ground itself feels the offering of this work as it spreads.

My evolving lineage of thought is HERE, and it is a joy to share with you the people who have helped me form my worldview through their wisdom, surviving, brilliance, humility, thinking, living, shapeshifting, questioning, mess-making, repairing, and sharing of thought.