Poem by Ashna Ali

DESCRIPTION
A screenshot from the website Zoeglossia, black text on a white background, of the poem's text;

Poem Text:
It’s H who starts me on the teas, delivers four fragrant boxes,
mixes them herself. She includes ingredients on a handmade label.
C I find on Instagram talking about her herbalism practice,
how she treats her own body. She makes videos about what my limbs
need while she holds the baby, feeds the dog.
I find N through P, who says hey, I think N might have doctors
who believe non-men when y’all talk. We make a list with reviews,
a private Yelp for queer crips and kin. I find the Naipo Cuddle-O
through B, who uses it before bed to not ask too much
of a massage therapist partner. I buy it as a gift for at least three
of the club, recommend it to everyone who has enough money
this month. We use it together on the phone, the buzzing
and moaning from each of our homes confusing, we hope,
to whomever might be surveilling. When I start the new drug,
two of the club tell me not to be surprised when I can’t eat,
when there’s a zap between my ears, when joy feels
just as far as rage, which, combined, feels like nothing.
Though we live in different states, we coordinate days
to say fuck it, do whatever we like, have one glass of wine
too many, eat everything. We cackle and cry to one another
from wheelchair, bathtub, toilet seat, shower stool,
somewhere on the floor. The club says plans are not plans
unless we’ve measured capacity, found whatever honesty
we have left between the sofa cushions. The club says hey,
I’ve got enough Valium for two, today. The club isn’t afraid
of blood, vomit, piss, shit, pills, passing money around.
Tomorrow we get up, clothe ourselves in health,
a workplace costume because everyone knows
that everyone would rather be fooled.


ADDITIONAL METADATA
Subject(s): Ashna Ali
Type: Text
Language: English
Location:

PROVENANCE
Collection: Nureena Faruqi Fellowship Project
Item History: 2024-07-03 (created); 2024-08-01 (modified)

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