14 hours of romantic candlelit mutual rimjobs

"Before I ran out of money, the acupuncturist told me the liver is the anger organ." — Tara McGowan-Ross

Discordia does not, it turns out, hate everything. Every other week, we share a piece of new or gently-used work from an artist who's earned our respect.

There is art that moves us, and there is art that moves with us. This is Fellow Travellers.

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14 hours of romantic candlelit mutual rimjobs

i.

Before I ran out of money, the acupuncturist
told me the liver is the anger organ—

which is what it tastes like: sweet head doming
to a grimace at the throat. Unpretentious & local

& elegantly presented. Not unlike shit,
but not too much. Come by honest, or even romantic.

I was guided here by some unseen hand
to sink gumdeep into someone else’s rage. I needed

the iron. Without significant effort on my part,
some organs make choices for me,

which is what I tell my doctor when he weighs me or
swabs me deeply, my husband when I wake for my

three-AM pacing. The waitress tells me the red
is intense like I would want it any other way. Here,

three blocks from where you used to live & I used
to linger, until I failed as your woman by saying

you needed help. Last time I walked by it was
landscaped, which you’d never do, which means

you are dead or in rehab. Either way, you are welcome
& I don’t take it back. 

ii.

The acupuncturist tells me it’s not the anger
that kills you, but being too quiet about it.

Needles removed, I was given the prescription of
yelling at people more, avoiding eating the bodies

of others unless I have a good reason
like for example that I am also a bleeding animal

& this is a paté, which is
more art than corpse—rummaged through &

turned over, worked on steady & deep
like one might a dead man’s pockets

or a lover’s asshole, both backs flat
on a Mile End sidewalk.
 
iii.

What I liked least about how you drank was
the foolish squandering of anger & consequence

& my disappointment & your other resources.
The cowardice of turning away from the world

God gave you like there was somewhere else
to go. I choose another grey dawn in the sick fuck

belly of gratitude, the sweetness fading to bitter
which lingers & is not unwelcome.

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Visit

Tara McGowan-Ross

on Substack, and follow her on IG @girthgirl.

TARA MCGOWAN-ROSS is an urban Mi’kmaq multidisciplinary artist. Her work has appeared in print and online, and has been anthologized in *Best Canadian Poetry* and *Anthologie de la poésie actuelle des femmes au Quebec*. Her first published work of prose, the memoir *Nothing Will Be Different*, was a finalist for the Hilary Weston Writers’ Trust Award for nonfiction. She lives in Montreal.

Interested in being a Fellow Traveller? Email your poetry, prose, visual art, etc. to discordia.sucks@gmail.com. We pay (not much), and pieces are collected a few times a year in a small print edition.

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