My desire is only this—to die someplace the earth made beautiful all on its own, the way a first-grader makes the morning glory out of construction paper and Elmer’s glue, … Continue reading
I hold a string of amethysts up to my collarbone.
There are wrinkles on my neck now,
rings of crinkled flesh like tree-markings,
one for each lived year
I remember being a teenager, leaning across my dresser towards its large mirror and studying my face, wondering if I was beautiful or not. It was an indecent hope, and I faithfully dashed it whenever I could.
When the hypnotherapist brought me out of my trance, I wondered about this deer, about my new vision of beauty—why had it changed? Something fundamental in me had shifted and reconstructed itself.
If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.