by Dustin Brookshire & Diamond Forde
after “Nicole Wants to Write A Poem With Maureen”
Have you ever noticed the signs on the shop across from Odd’s Cafe? Dustin asks Diamond. Reduce. Reuse. Low waste. High Standards. Refill. Recycle. As Dustin sips his vanilla latte across from Diamond, he confesses the signs make him think of his dating life before thinking of being environmentally friendly. He wants to know what Diamond thinks of when she reads the signs
and Diamond tries not to think of herself. Navel-gazing, Lee Gutkind warns her, and so Diamond marvels at the typeface, hatchets the red-blade lettering of Low Waste, High Standards into the daily threat of night—the silver-fanged moon drooling through the open curtains—how many times did Diamond avoid her dark in the arms of another? Like that one time she fucked that band member—his clabber and chatter in the dark stark against her own quiet. Diamond’s lips stitched together in horror, his sweat licking the corners of her mouth—maybe some men aren’t worth recycling…
Girl, ain’t that the damn truth, Dustin explains. Dustin thinks of the men before his days of
therapy— they were his DIY or recycling projects. Dr. Gup helped him realize he was a fixer. The list from his 20s is longer than a CVS receipt. The nymphomaniac, that at 22, Dustin was so sure he could change. That man inhaled Dustin, his joy, and his love like Kirby. The man that acted like Dustin was a car he purchased off the lot— Dustin mistook possession for love– that one, that one is his rapist.
Reduce. Reuse. In Salvage the Bones, the main character Esch says that sometimes it is easier to let him keep touching me than ask him to stop but perhaps this is navel-gazing, perhaps this is the pulp-fruit of Diamond’s gut overripened with revelation—that it took too long to trust her vesseled body, her mind eager to fill with more than men could give: what has Diamond refilled with lately—honey and ginger, the kick-step of Dustin’s fingers across the Mac, the ash scent of a blackened bagel skittering into the street—and how do we recycle the hurt of these moments, Dustin?
Next question, Dustin kids, as he tries to reach back in time to those therapy sessions where he learned to recycle the hurt, but he can’t bring those moments into now, into this poem, but he will share one tip: Dustin gives himself one day to be angry/sad/hurt/rage. One day of whatever he wants as long as he doesn’t hurt another. He can yell at rainbows. Roll his eyes at children on a playground. Punch every damn pillow in his apartment. Whatever he needs for that day, but then he leaves it in the past. Then Dustin becomes a cartographer– creates a map to travel beyond. Diamond’s question makes him realize— this is recycling:
a flyer ripped from the telephone pole, a cigarette butt, a moment crumpled into refuse in the road: Dustin and Diamond recycle all of it, root through the coffee grounds and dog-stink of their pasts, find the stubborns blooms there: this moment: Dustin and Diamond traversing the miles they’ve traveled to be here, their standards higher now, reaching an impossible reach—like two dandelions bucking brilliant from a sidewalk crack.
Dustin Brookshire’s chapbooks include Never Picked First For Playtime (Harbor Editions, 2023), Love Most Of You Too (Harbor Editions, 2021), and To The One Who Raped Me (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2012). He is the co-editor of Let Me Say This: A Dolly Parton Poetry Anthology (Madville Publishing, 2023), which was named to the 2024 “Books All Georgians Should Read” list by the Georgia Center for the Book. Find him online at dustinbrookshire.com.
Diamond Forde is the author of Mother Body, a 2022 Kate Tufts Discovery award finalist. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Ninth Letter, Tupelo Quarterly, and more. You can find out more at her website: diamondforde.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 