before & after Hobart Bluff : 4.24.21
& after
by JJ Rowan
I haven’t been sitting in coffee shops. I miss them and my shoulder does not, it aches where I
I haven’t been
never manage to fully rest on the table, hover the healing part as I write, hover the never-quite-
healing
healed part. Disclaimer: I am the only patron tucked in the far corner, two and a half months
I am only
fully vaccinated, a span of time in which my body is assumed to be doing some of the work of
doing some of the work
immunity, in which I have bled three times, too often and too early, and my breasts become
too often
beams of pain for a couple weeks at a time. I’m spotting blood in all my clothes and linens,
I’m
a drop of blood in the bath like it has something to prove, like it has a point to make, there’s no
something to prove there’s no
proof of anything so I put my already hot skin in a hotter bath, we’re having a little competition,
proof
we’re both losing. Articles vaguely point to the often and early bleeding as a side effect, maybe,
maybe
possibly, studies are or aren’t being done. Some people have claimed they started bleeding
the moment the vaccine entered their bodies and there is no proof of anything and these are
the two most common pieces of information I can find. I refuse to type women into my Google
I can refuse
search phrases, the internet puts it there anyway, I am not a woman and I am bleeding too early
I am not
and too often, I am not a woman who’s getting good at auto-translating woman out of me,
getting good me
off my skin, out from between my search terms no matter how tight I pack them, and when
my skin my terms
I’m bad at auto-translating I just close the browser and press my breasts in a way that sometimes
I’m bad at me
takes the edge off the soreness, sometimes makes it worse, it’s worth a try. Wipe away a swath
of blood, sit in a coffee shop while the county surges again: mask between sips, mask when
in a mask
the woman walks in mid-sip -- pausing here to squeeze between my fingers and then into my
pausing
palm a burr the size of my thumbnail I pulled off my shoelace after Hobart Bluff, but this is still
this is still
before Hobart Bluff, the burr still comes later, the burr is in my hand right now -- the woman
in my hand -- woman
who walks in mid-sip who knew me with my abuser. I retreat from the moment a little, don’t
I
recognize, don’t recognize but I recognize her, with a name that starts with an L that I can’t quite
don’t recognize her I can’t quite
get the whole of, I remember the swatches of her outfits, how she combined color and still does,
remember her
a longtime friend of the man who gave me this still-sore shoulder, this persistent reminder
this
of where his hands have been and how he used them. I suspect there is more grief hiding out
grief
there, in the shoulder’s ridge, where it burns now almost two cups and two pages in, where
where it burns where
the messier script marks the messier pain, and soon I’ll leave and soon I’ll drive up to Hobart
soon
Bluff, soon I’ll finish the bottom of this cup of coffee, just as soon as she leaves, just as soon as
she leaves
I can confirm she can’t see me here. Even with half my face gone, more than half my hair.
I can’t see me here
This morning I drove away from the almost-rain to the maybe dregs of snow, it is April and
I almost
I’ll go up and up -- and yes, there is snow as I get close to the trailhead, more swaths of snow
go
on the trail, and the kind of rain starts that spits, it’s so very almost snow, it so very wants to be
almost
snow but just can’t quite. I want very much to be and just can’t quite, and I very much will be on
and can’t quite
the trail but not yet, I am not yet on the trail -- I am in the coffee shop and the woman is in the
I am not the woman in
coffee shop and my sore shoulder is in the coffee shop hovering above the table I try to lean into
my sore shoulder I try to
a bit more every time I remember to. On my drive to the coffee shop I did let myself think of
remember to
him, hard, let his face fully form in my memory, look cautiously for his car, remember the times
look for
he followed me to the coffee shop to make sure that’s where I would be, not this one but around
me
the corner from this one the place where we met, a story for another story, a memory for
the place where we met
a different day. I’m fully back in the coffee shop, the woman is gone, the man at the counter
I’m
ordering to-go insists the baristas just need light work and a podiatrist and everything will be
fine. One barista says people are just TIRED, man and the other’s eyes get wide at me, my eyes
TIRED
get wide back, we make this exchange with half our faces gone, it feels really nice. I pull back
I
my mask just to finish the cup, I gather myself, I thank the baristas, I think are you doing ok,
mask just to gather myself
we all look at each other, no one says anything, no one else is here, I think we all understand
I think
each other, it feels really nice. I duck into the bathroom before I go, I don’t have a problem
I don’t have a problem
shitting in public restrooms but it’s not gonna happen yet, thank goodness for Hobart Bluff’s pit
but
toilet or thank goodness enough. I circle around and cut through the rest of downtown, where
I circle around
traffic stops while five deer cross in the crosswalk, the youngest uncertain as though being
as though
taught, I’m sure they’re teaching their babies to do this because I see the Ashland deer do this all
I do
the time. Someone across the street is snapping a picture, and someone else is referring to them
as vermin but I don’t know who they mean, the deer or the photographer.
And now
And now
I’m on Hobart Bluff, almost an hour driving to where the roads go a little feral, where you’re
I’m
reminded when a home’s nearby with signs that say no hunting, no dust, no shooting next mile.
nearby
Bright yellow cattle guard. A man picking up his dog, waving, while I work my way around
I work my way around
the dips in the road. There is no one parked at the trailhead and the places where the blue sky
the places where
made a brief appearance have filled in again. It’s still a relief, the clean quiet air reminding me of
it’s quiet
yesterday’s sudden smoke sky while a little scare burned by Applegate Lake, now contained,
just a little smoke and no ash. That sky seized me in the stomach, and now the sky’s a breath,
but my stomach’s got a different knot, a little urgency, and the small brick building that holds
the toilet is locked. It’s off-season. It’s starting to rain. I’m not going to pass anyone on the trail.
I’m not
I bundle with what I have, having underestimated the weather but pleased to see the patches of
pleased
snow anyway. The trail’s a little muddy but I feel solid, if a little hurried, once my feet are
but I feel solid
moving. It’s off-season and the trail log told me maybe no one’s hiked here in at least a week.
maybe
I look for droppings and prints, think about what I have on hand if I need to defend myself.
myself
I normally trust animals more than people, but I will not encounter people today. No scat, proof
I will not
of deer. I get far enough off the trail to take a shit and bury it and it turns out I mostly drove an
bury it I
hour to shit in the woods, the rain comes down heavier and my hip and shoulder take turns
take
telling me it’s not a day to push, blinking lights of pain at regular intervals but never in sync with
me
each other. I remember how the trail opens up to be fully exposed as it gets steeper. I get more
steeper
nervous about mountain lions. I follow my own tracks back through the mud and snow, the
I follow my own tracks
squeak-pack of the snow on the ground in patches and the quiet embrace of the snow almost
and
coming out of the sky but never actually making it, the almost-arms-around-me of precipitation.
And then I’ve made my way down the winding hour, I’ve stopped by the lake to walk around a
then I’ve made my way down
little more where the rain’s broken again, where the water’s still but for a couple fishing boats,
where the ground is rockier and more green, a cloud sitting on the mountains like they do here,
holding a whole possibility that may never come. The way the road wound down reminded me
how my thinking winds when I’m moving, it’s still fast but easier to hear and feel. I lift my
when I’m moving
phone to take a picture and a picture appears, a lake on the opposite coast, a photo of my brother
a picture appears
standing facing a lake in the same way I’m standing facing a lake, the way a photo would look
I’m facing
if someone was behind me, photographing. I get a little closer to the water, close enough to know
me I get a little closer
I don’t want to touch it, even in search of a possibility that may never come. I take the slow way
I take the slow way
through the town I’ve done most of my grieving in, noticing many places my grief has lived,
noticing
being reminded of this time of year’s particular greens. Soon everything will go brown, soon
being reminded
another drought year, soon the water level at Emigrant Lake will drop, an even darker
water-to-muck ratio. Soon I’ll be home picking a burr out of my shoelace, and pressing it into
my palm, and pressing the script from my notebook into the keys. Soon something comes next,
I’m not sure what but at least I know it’s something.
I know it’s something
JJ Rowan (they/them) is a queer nonbinary poet and dancer. They are looking for places where the written line and the lines of the moving body intersect. Their poems, hybrid work, and interactive performances have appeared in Just Femme & Dandy, Dream Pop Journal, Trampoline, and at the SMOL Fair and the Splinter Collective’s Interrupted by Trains, among others. Their most recent chapbook is a simple verb (Bloof Books). You can follow their #notebooking project on Instagram (@stepswritely) and sign up for their newsletter, actual motion, at www.jayjayrowan.com.