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Andrea Gibson
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Name That Meat
My girlfriend likes to play a game called Name That Meat.
She sends me text messages saying 'Name this meat：It's shaped like a log and goes really well with applesauce.'
I write her back 'tofurkey'
She writes me back 'No. Pork tenderloin, Andrea.
This is like playing 1960's trivia with a 3rd grader.'
I write her back
'Well then, maybe you should find another girlfriend to play your carnivorous games with because this one knows that it takes 50 square feet of rainforest to make a single quarter pounder and I do not eat the death of the planet for lunch and therefore do not know the edible names of the animals you munch without thought of supporting an industry that makes Nike look like Mother Theresa.
Xoxoxo I can't wait to see you tonight.'
We got nothing in common.
Or so it would seem from the outside.
On the in breath, we're having dinner.
She's eating her 50 square feet of death.
I'm eating my organic, vegan, local salad. No meat, no cheese, and please hold the dressing because I don't want to exploit the little honey bees.
But when we meet you,
She will be a thousand times more likely to greet you with open arms than me.
I'm uptight and selfish.
She's sit down and join us. You look heartbroken. How's your family?
And I'm choking on my lettuce about now.
Begging the cows to come home and prove me holier than now
But it's not going to happen.
I've got a closet full of protest signs buried by all the times I wish I had been kinder to a friend.
I wish I listened better than I did.
I wish I walked these lines to your doorstep the night you were holding your last breath like a kite string in a lightning storm.
These things confuse me.
Gandhi was a nonviolent peace activist who treated his family terribly.
He could have collected as much salt from their tears as he did from the sea.
While the most gentle person I know is touting an M-16 in Bagdad right now.
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How does heaven decide who its angels will be?
How do we?
When hearts take the shape of fists beating and smoke stacks form clouds the shape of lungs breathing
and a handful of bad seeds will form a string of prayer beads under the right conditions.
Nothing is ever as clear as it seems.
My friend's conservative, Republican, Catholic mother woke every morning at 5 am for 4 years to pray my family would one day see that any God worth calling God would be a God that loves queers.
We all grow in two directions, one toward the skies.
Limbs holding hymns or war cries that all the world can see.
The other beneath the surface.
Roots griping a truth less obvious.
This is the pacifist clenched fists on the nights when songs turn into bombs one too many times.
This is radical feminist writing 'White Only' signs between the lines of their revolution.
This is a US soldier seeking refuge in the open arms of Canada.
While Canada arms soldiers that opens fire on Afghanistan.
Some days, even the sand in the hourglass doesn't have time.
Some days the sunshine casts shadows and bullets faint at the sight of blood.
I'm never gonna eat a hamburger, love.
You're never gonna not say hello with a smile in your eyes like a porch light welcoming this broken world home.
And this is how we'll grow, in every direction.
The answers are easy. It's the questions that are hard.
What can you teach me?
What can I learn here?
Whoever you are, are you also looking for a soft place to sleep?
Are you also in search of a dark night holding the quiet light of 6 billion wishful stars?
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