and soar to worlds on high 

︎ they/them ︎


My phone keeps autocorrecting soil to soul.

I keep refusing to speak to machines but I guess they need a conversation anyway. 

Do they even know about the Mystery? The way Material and Spirit shift, flow, crumble, grow around us? 

Do they feel displacement, queerness, and body-space relationships? Do they connect to the past or think about their baba’s little pot? That classic enamel one, bright blue with the white polka dots? The one tata would use to make them hot cocoa with stale bread? Maybe they see the angels and the ghosts and maybe they see musicians playing together and enjoy elaborate costume changes and know death. Do they also want to push themselves into the soil, feel wool between their fingers, smell the inside of a cave? Can you will you pray for them?

Will my autocorrect grieve me the way I grieve every(one)(thing) we’ve lost?

Does autocorrect know that it too, is dust?

 

CV

TUMBLR

contact: digit4l.soil@gmail.com