Compass

This is an archive of the original Bastard Quarterly newsletter, edited by Damsel Plum and Charles Filius. It was published in print and on the web between 1997 and 2002.

Compass

by Sarah Fry

(This article first appeared in the Fall 1997 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

I knew years ago I was not one who believed
that life, nor any river, could doctor truth and run.
So I set a course for Charlotte! There was I conceived,
In a hotel, an apartment bed, under top-floor August sun.

This is not to say I had no love.
Still something always plants me on the guilt,
Waters nearby roots to nourish me above
Some collective past where seed on soil was spilt.

Can hurt be identified? Can it? I wonder then,
Can primal wounds and dampened cord excuse
My years of memories? My self? All that has been?
In classifying pain, I can only name a bruise.

Take my soul; though it is mine,
I hand it over freely for inspection.
Please, isolate the moments, draw the line
Where separation met with recollection.

Others, those not in this creaking boat,
Misunderstand our rough sail through the mud;
They call it interference. Those ingrates are afloat!
Still on we row in search of thicker blood.

But whether it is Carolina or some darker place,
The reasons do not cause us to set forth
In search of past or similarity of face.
A compass cannot help but point to north.

I wish that in these words, I could provide
A solace to those scrambling on both shores.
I cry out that I will not choose a side!
I can only be forever mine, not yours.

Sarah Fry is a SF Bay Area adoptee recently reunited with her birthmother through the International Soundex Reunion Registry. Sarah volunteered at RegDay '97 and did local press outreach for the ISRR and BN in conjunction with this event.

(This article first appeared in the Fall 1997 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)