Sarah Guilbault
the body wants
listen
he repeats, “do what the body wants”
and the room tilts
bodies sway and crawl and moan and still
I want
to know what want is
first
observe
a figure wanting
to figure it in/out
a plant pressing its tender new leaves against glass
molding toward the cold plate between it and the sun
urging through with low persistence
up
with enough hope and pressure for long enough
practice
preserving a lack
to fill the space between myself and fulfillment
hold onto the not quite, almost, moment before
an instruction manual would be useful
return
to the text of wanting
reading desire in the curve of the words to spark
recognition
only visible in the wanting body of another
repeat
copy
steal the wanting of another
to rehearse what the body might want
iterate and reiterate to cultivate widening lack
re
re
re
read an account of desire
repeat
become delicious if done enough times
remember
It was at the national trust place you made me drive to even as I panicked stomping on the clutch and
stalling out because I always forget it’s the left hand I should shift with. A bruise forms on my right wrist.
When you read this, you will tell me I remember wrong. This memory moves too much. I dream it in
repetitions that dilute the facts and never the feeling. It is yours, so I won’t argue. We did not have tea that
day, we stopped and walked, and then, drove off afraid we were being followed after barely closing our
eyes behind the barricaded door. I did not drive. Did I live there yet? Or was I on vacation? We vacated,
drove away before sunrise the night your friend threatened to kill you and then himself and I stood
between you while he called me your girlfriend and nothing more, not his friend, as I stood between him
and the knife and we never spoke again, but I remember the mirrored terror in each of your faces. Later,
up north, hiding our secrets in a ruin and breathing the nearly Scottish air, did we finally cry?
older
when the light catches
like a breath in my throat
I see what you will look like older
each smile etching your face
briefly until they become permanent
if I make you laugh
will you reference me in your artist statement?
Sarah Guilbault is a writer and performer living on unceded Lenape land in Harlem. Their work focuses on touch, uncanny encounters, and diffusions of queer intimacies. Sarah takes inspiration from friendship, epistolary correspondence, and underwater clowning. They can be found on social media @guilbobaggins.
