This is y(ours)
My body fits into the borders of neatly partitioned land.
So it goes, this land was made for me. Therefore, that is mine.
That land was made for you. That is yours.
But what about the Intangible We that leaks between the crevices? That is ours.
So let’s call the space between our borders, a garden.
Would that change anything?
And all the flowers and everything in between, our domain.
And every flower, blade of grass, body angled toward you, my desires.
And every flower, blade of grass, body angled toward me, your desires.
And every flower cut, weed ripped, grass mowed, body signal ignored, tending (fearful obedience).
Fences built with words, yet here we are at the edge, lingering.
photos from bianca hockensmith’s “explore the fence” on Are.na
~~~writer’s note: a reflection on borders, boundaries, and the romanticization of gardens, another tool throttling the spectrum of collective intimacy + individualistic control.