Gillian Ebersole
there are no more special occasions
and that’s a relief of sorts. I saved a rose-scented bar of soap for months – when I finally used it, I told myself by the time it was gone this would be over, we would be together, I’d have an apartment and a record player and zucchini bread in the oven. I have none of that. the soap has run out. my hands are dirty, and I have grown tired of saving things. I handed you my dreams like sacred but dirty pennies, and you stretched them to paint the sky. if god is arugula, do we make salad or save it for garnish? I told you I could never escape the crib and the crypt but you made me think about a future as soft as the crack of sunlight in a new york city studio, and I believed that even when my throat burned. now every second feels like an out-of-tune orchestra.
there is something to the ache. if you are barbed wire, make me a lamb. if you are a pomegranate, make me persephone. if you are a sculptor, make me david. we made something out of all the dust and sweat, chiseled away at ourselves until there was nothing left but a glimmer of light on the ceiling. I’ve been in love with scabs since I understood the cool grass in the early morning. take the bandages from your forearms. if you were the moment when time stopped, I am the clock that fell off the wall, second hand spinning out of control. you made me look away from the ticking. one day I’ll dance you back to life. only blind grins here in our corner of the room.
my stomach turned over the day I met you, awkward and yet invincible. please laugh again. roll your eyes at me. that’s when I knew you’d meet me between my ballet slipper and the blister. mary magdalene had jesus, and I have you. when is the resurrection?
there is something to the ache. if you are barbed wire, make me a lamb. if you are a pomegranate, make me persephone. if you are a sculptor, make me david. we made something out of all the dust and sweat, chiseled away at ourselves until there was nothing left but a glimmer of light on the ceiling. I’ve been in love with scabs since I understood the cool grass in the early morning. take the bandages from your forearms. if you were the moment when time stopped, I am the clock that fell off the wall, second hand spinning out of control. you made me look away from the ticking. one day I’ll dance you back to life. only blind grins here in our corner of the room.
my stomach turned over the day I met you, awkward and yet invincible. please laugh again. roll your eyes at me. that’s when I knew you’d meet me between my ballet slipper and the blister. mary magdalene had jesus, and I have you. when is the resurrection?
Biography
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Gillian Ebersole (she/they) is a dancer and writer who explores the embodied experience of queerness in her poetry and choreography. She graduated from Loyola Marymount University Summa Cum Laude with a dual degree in English and Dance. Gillian currently works for Jacob’s Pillow Dance Festival and writes for various dance publications. She believes in yellow bedrooms, sunset dances, and sitting in coffeeshops.
website: gillianebersole.com instagram: @bygillianebersole |
