Audrey Fatone
Guerilla Gardening Where I Was Assaulted
I’m sowing the soil of a tent pad
my fanny pack is overflowing
with envelopes of native north country seeds
of purple coneflower, purple lupine
I am inserting each into the ground
one by one, carefully into the earth
I am squeezing the straw of my Camelback
watering each, one by one with a single drop
I think of the girl who slept here
in 2018, my hair was so long then
I didn’t have the scar on my shin
from my fall on Mt Washington
or the one on my left thumb
from cutting cheese for Nora and I’s
camp stove quesadillas in the desert
with that finger
I place the final seed
I kneel and press my lips
against dirt
Letter to My Parents I Wrote Before Shaving My Head
Grace told me once
that when I was born
and when I was a teenager
I was not the girl you
were expecting which in
a way I’m sure
was a relief I never
scared you in high school
I didn’t drink or have sex
after prom but now
I scare you
because I go to the wilderness
alone too often
and I lived in the Arctic
and the red rock desert
once and I forgot to bring
enough water once
I saw visions of lakes
that never existed once
I know that scares you
I’m sorry I know that you
want me to find
a boy and a house
and a parade of children
and go to the state park
on the weekends and say
that’s enough and yes
I know you think
that will be my joy
and I know you think
I am confused or lost
but I’m actually on
a quest that’s
never aimless
I always hike with a
paper map and compass
you raised me smart
enough to know
how to plan
I’m sorry my joy isn’t
what you wanted it
to be but you
have to believe me
I will find it
Audrey Fatone currently resides in Raleigh, NC where she is in graduate school for Parks and Recreation. She writes about the intersections of queerness in the natural world and going to the woods as means for finding unconditional love and acceptance.