Lydian Blossom lives in Brooklyn. She loves to act, read and buy flowers. She is originally from Southern California.
Place finger in sauce pan on low. Gradually add entire hand. With other hand, combine dirt from childhood home with piece of favorite camp shirt. Song that's made you cry. Page of a book that's made you laugh. Graduate to larger pot, seasoning with salt. Add water. Not enough to submerge. Leave it all behind. Boil down. Break down. Steam away doubt. Simmer away fear. Boldly blend in vulnerability and bubble. Pour out on warm concrete. Harden in the sun. Allow ample time for this. Sleep in a bed of flowers. In a bed of your making. Trust someone's arms.
Did pigeons exist before cities? (We wonder aloud) Hard to imagine. The chicken or the egg. We toss crumbs, instigate rivalry, and are met with practiced, head-bob nonchalance. Seasoned New Yorkers, (maybe more so than we) they seize what's theirs, pretend not to care. Pretend what they're grabbing, not sharing, (ferociously tearing) is just a lucky find, not what's keeping them alive. We are scavengers on a bench, I think, don't you? Feeding our quiet sides, picking at the morselled moments when we breathe. Like a gang of pigeons on a cigarette sidewalk, trying to remember where we came from.