Your eyes linger down my sentiments.
Your flowers died in a matter of days.
“I have something to say to you, but I won’t say it.”
Those are the only words you say to me.

**“Western Anemone”, Laura Gilpin (1926)**

2. ( You were all I’ve ever known. )

( You’re the only hoax I’ll ever believe in. )

( I’m gonna’ love you like it’s 1974. )

( Your love drips on the floor. )

( Your honey sticks between floor boards. )

( I’ll be on the cover of Marie Claire. )

( We will run around in circles. )

( Dance along to jazz music. )

**"Une femme est une femme", Jean-Luc Godard (1961)**

3. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE YOU

I didn’t know how to speak until I was eight.

I never knew how to wear a hat on my head without looking stupid.

I don’t know how to style mismatched fabric.

I still don’t know how to spell the word kaleidoscope.

(I don’t know how to love you either.)

I can’t bring myself to read the poems I wrote

back when I was fourteen.

I probably won’t re-read this once I finish it.

We were sitting inside a photo booth.

Your hair smelled like lavender.

Your breath smelled like vanilla.

When I was young,

I used to get goosebumps all the time.

All over my body, down my legs, across my arms, all over my chest.

When I began my adolescents,

my body became warm and affectionate.

But when we sat there,

your face in my neck.

I felt it all over again.

All over my body, down my legs, across my arms, all over my chest.

And it didn’t matter how warm my heart was beating in that moment.

It really didn’t.

(I don’t know how to love you)

I will sit in the bathtub fully clothed,

until my skin turns wrinkly.

Until you come home,

and we’ll have that leftover stir fry for dinner

that's been sitting in the fridge for days.

I never knew how to love a man.

I never got the instructions,

the how-to book.

I wish I could love you the way it was bo rn.

Wish I could cup your ears when fireworks play.

Wish I could scratch your back until you fall asleep.

If you ever read these words,

answer one of these question for me,

Do you like perennials?

Or how about azure asters?

Is this enough?

Is it enough if I never loved you?

Is it?

I don’t know how to…

4. I bet you can still see me with your eyes closed.

That potted plant I gave you – do you still have it? Or has it withered before the sun rose during autumn.

I made you a scarf with yellow yarn and blue thread. When was the last time you wore it?

When you burn incense, does it remind you of me?

I’m not alive, but I bet you can still smell me in your clothes.

My shadow sits on the brown sofa by your coffee table.

I’m right here.

5. Emilie’s poems make no sense to me, but I think that’s what makes them good.

Women and poetry aren’t any different – they’re only pleasant when they’re easier to understand, easier to swallow, easier to consume.

6. ORANGE TREE LEGACY

The first and last house I ever bought had a big backyard. I planted an orange tree near the picket fence, and I watched it grow taller than me. I raised four daughters, and I peeled them oranges every chance I got.

I filled baskets and baskets of oranges and gave them to neighbors or sometimes the mailman every summer. We ate oranges more than any other fruit. Many years went by, and my daughters planted a second orange tree next to mine. A decade went by and my daughters had their own daughters. My granddaughters planted a third orange tree next to mine also. Our orange tree legacy will always continue, and it started with me.

7. BROKEN COBBLESTONES, CHEAP MAROON WALLPAPER, AND THAT BEAUTIFUL APPLE TREE

It was spring of 2014. My grandma and I were looking to buy a new house away from downtown Edmonton. We came across this house with broken cobblestones out on the front porch, and the inside had this cheap maroon colored wallpaper. All that didn’t matter to me once I saw the big tree that grew pink flowers in the backyard – it was an apple tree! It was only the start of spring, so there weren’t any apples yet, but these pink flowers that grew all around the tree looked so distinctly of cherry blossoms. I fell in love with those pink flowers, and the idea of picking apples off of a tree every hot summer.

We moved into that house a couple months later.

Summer was finally around the corner, and the first three apples had grown! I was so excited. My grandma washed them under some warm water, and took a bite. She puckered her lips and scrunched up her nose.

“This is the sourest apple I’ve ever eaten!”

And I thought it couldn’t be that bad, so I took a bite too and yes, it was very sour.

She said she was going to chop the tree down, and I laughed at her because I thought she was just joking around. I can start getting used to eating sour apples – I could chew and savor every bite.

A week later, I came back home from school, and the apple tree was gone. The sour apples were thrown in the trash, the log was chopped in half inside a black garbage bag, the leaves in another.

And I cried, because the apple tree was why I loved the house so much.