Obama vs Romney vs Seals

October 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

Weddell Seal

I’m going to watch the debate tonight, and hope for the best. But even if Obama wins—the debate, the election—there’s a lot of work to do to get him moving on climate change and energy policy, as well as getting all those other deadweight in Congress in line. More work is being done locally by cities, towns and individuals than on the federal level (other than the EPA standards, which are great), and that’s probably for the best, but it would help to have Obama solidly on board. Even if he can’t get bills through Congress, he can explain things to the American people, confirm their suspicious that yes the weather is very weird and will get weirder, and without pretending to know exactly what’s going to happen when or how we can avoid it, he can make it clear that both the dangers and the opportunities are too great to ignore. He can salute and support local efforts. The oil companies can’t buy every city councilman, town alderman, Silicon Valley start up, local roofing guy, smart tech gal, DIY parent with a genius 15 year old looking for a science project, etc.

I read that driving is less popular with the young. Well, sure; it’s not nearly as fun as when I was 17, when there was much more room on the road, cheaper gas, no enviro-guilt…U.S. emissions are down, too, though a lot of that is from fracking. Still. Renewables are leaping ahead, and though they have a long way to leap and not much time to do it in, this is the hopey-changey part of my message, so enjoy it, all you why-is-Margaret-so-negative- folks. You guys who whisper, It’s sad—she’d be so smart if only she wasn’t sucked into a black hole every time she switches on her brain.


I tend to hoard my optimism. Why share what’s rare? Sadness is what makes me want to reach out, demand reassurance, assign blame, etc. Happiness is as simple as a cat or a cake. But never mind that. When you finish this post, you’ll get a nice poem.

I just signed a petition at ClimateSilence.org, which they asked me to pass along. In their words, “Will you help me end the silence on climate change? President Barack Obama and Governor Mitt Romney have a responsibility to tell the American public about the clear and present danger of carbon pollution and how they plan to address it. I just signed the petition at ClimateSilence.org to demand they break their silence. Although words alone won’t save us, silence seals our fate.

Together, our voices can break the silence.

Please join me by signing the petition to the candidates at http://climatesilence.org.”

When I tweeted it, the message shrinkage made me think it was about seals, but that’s okay, since there’s nothing like thinking about a seal to make you want to stop global warming. We don’t want that arctic ice to melt and neither do they. We also really don’t want wildfires, drought, floods, famine and pestilence. 

 Here’s an article that may tell you a little more than you knew about the current drought (which is bad in parts of China, Russia as well). http://topics.nytimes.com/top/news/science/topics/drought/index.html

 That’s it for now. Time for the cats’ dinner, our dinner.




Perhaps I hold people to impossible ideals,

I tell them, something is wrong with your

personality, (you’re a drinker, you’re

too dependent, or I think you have

a mother/son fixation). This is usually

followed by passionate lovemaking,

one good long and very well meaning

embrace, and then I’m out the door. 


In daylight, I’ll tip my sunglasses forward,

buy a cup of tea and think of the good

I’ve done for the world, how satisfying

it feels to give a man something to contemplate.

The heart is a whittled twig. No, that is not

the right image, so I drop the heart in a pile

of wood and light that massive text on fire.   


I walk the streets of Brooklyn looking

at this storefront and that, buy a pair of shoes

I can’t afford, pumps from London, pointed

at the tip and heartbreakingly high, hear

my new heels clicking, crushing the legs

of my shadow. The woman who wears

these shoes will be a warrior, will not think

about how wrong she is, how her calculations

look like the face of a clock with hands

ticking with each terrorizing minute.


She will for an instant feel so much

for the man, she left him lying in his bed

softly weeping. He whispers something

to himself  like bitch, witch, cold hearted

______,  but he’ll think back to the day

at the promenade when there was no one there

but the two of them, the entire city falling away

into a thin film of yellow and then black,


and how she squeezed his hand, kissed him

on his wrist which bore a beautifully healed

scar, he will love her between instances

of cursing her name. She will have long

fallen asleep in her own bed, a thin nude

with shoes like stilts, shoes squeezing

the blood out of her feet, and in her sleep

she rises above a disappearing city, her head

touching a remote heaven, though below her,

closer to the ground, she feels an ache at the bottom.


–Tina Chang




The Past is Another Country

September 20, 2012 § 4 Comments

Arctic Ocean, September 2009

The Times had a front page article yesterday about arctic sea ice and climate change. It echoes, in a softer voice, what I’ve been reading on the blogs–fiercely concerned scientists concluding that because of this accelerating melt, the extreme weather of 2012 could get dramatically worse over the next five to eight years. The release of the methane in the Eastern Siberian ice shelf is the scariest of all the many scary possibilities. I’m not going to try to explain the science; read it here. But it occurs to me that if this happens—ever-worsening droughts and wildfires every summer from now on—food prices will soon rise to a point that I can’t afford to eat. So maybe it’s counterproductive to go on a diet, and I should finish the fudge cake now.

No, it’s not funny, but I have a hard time accepting that the election, the jobs situation, partisan hatred, the deficit, etc, will soon be dwarfed by the storms and droughts, the heat and cold that will descend upon us, irregardless of the fact that we are slowly beginning to change, that solar and wind hav emade such progress. Food riots, killing floods, wild inflation, huge numbers of refugees and wider wars over resources could easily occur within a dozen years. Or maybe not until 2030. But in any case, not very long. If I had money, I’d spend it now. I’d stop thinking long-term and do what I most wanted as soon as possible. (Travel.)

Jorgen Randers, one of the writers of the seminal book The Limits of Growth (1972) writes of learning to grieve for everything that is being and will be lost, of slowly getting over the shock and disbelief—taking the next emotional step, as one does after a death. “I had to learn to live with the loss. To accept that such-and-such a forest was gone—permanently, with no resurrection possible…I believe it will be calming to get to know the world that is likely to be our home in the future, rather than dreaming about the world that could have been. The first step down the road to mental peace is to obtain a precise description of what the world is likely to look like. Then to accept it. Finally, to stop grieving.”

I think that’s what I’m going through, although not being a scientist I can’t come up with my own answers, but veer wildly between different futures. But no matter how soon or how bad, I know that what hasn’t happened has already happened, as when you come back from the doctor with a terminal prognosis. There’s time left but you can’t change the outcome. The polar bears and elephants, the tigers, the lizards and birds and spiders I’ve never seen except on Facebook—those increasingly gorgeous pictures of nature that people seem obsessed with lately—will go. I wish I could see them in person, but maybe it’s better not to.

I don’t think the human race will go extinct or lose the knowledge we’ve gained, but the world of my childhood when the seasons proceeded in an order that felt timeless, following rules I learned a little something about each year— the mysteries of water and photosynthesis, of igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rock; the classifying of species, the magic of place names like Madagascar, the Sahara, Antarctica—and my youth when I could read poems from 200 or 1,000 years ago and recognize the earth, the sea, the weather, even when it was a country very much colder or hotter, because it was the same climate in the same place: that’s going. That’s gone. The child who wanted to explore that world won’t get a chance to—sob, sob—but neither will any child now living or to be born.

I’ve always had an apocalyptic bent. It comes more easily now because I’m not looking forward as much—I’m having trust issues with the world. So the natural human impulse to deny a terrifying future has been muted. A large part of me doesn’t believe it can be this bad, just as you don’t believe it. But the crash of 2008—long predicted, not prepared for—has made me more conversant with what the financial prophet Nassim Taleb calls the Black Swan (an event, positive or negative, that is deemed improbable yet causes massive consequences). I can feel the foreshadowing because I’m less afraid of it; then it makes me more afraid.

It also reminds me to enjoy food while I have it. Yesterday I bought 4 for $10 boxes of raspberries at the Farmer’s Market: tiny, dark red, bursting with flavor. I bought lush, bulbous tomatoes, tight-skinned eggplants, palm-sized Macoun apples. I’ll go back tomorrow for green beans and okra, yellow and purple carrots, pears and plums. I think we’ll eat mostly vegetables and fruit through October.

Thinking about the possible very dark near future also makes me glad that several people close to me have been happy in recent years. My sister got married last week. My niece is getting married next summer. My other niece fell in love and my brother’s also happy in love. My husband is happy; my ex-lover is happy. (I’m not entirely glad about the latter, but I try.)

If the world ends in ice and fire in a dozen years, I wish everyone a little more pleasure, normalcy, joy. As for me, I had a beautiful walk last night, past the 19th century brownstones and the musicians in Washington Square Park. I get to play with words and have someone with whom to watch the election coverage. Charles is making me lunch.

Meanwhile, our governments jockey for oil rights in the Arctic. The stupidity is not only that an oil spill there heightens the climate effect significantly (black oil traps sunlight) and that it’s much harder to clean up (no ready fleet of private fishing boats) and so on—the worst part is planning to use that much oil in the first place. What we already have, the known supply in the ground, is enough to send the planet into post-human temperatures. Get used to it, folks: a lot of that oil has to stay there.

I chose this poem because of a part of this entry that I ended up deleting, but I’m going to leave it. It speaks to me.

The Ballad of Moll Magee

Come round me, little childer;
There, don’t fling stones at me
Because I mutter as I go;
But pity Moll Magee.

My man was a poor fisher
With shore lines in the say;
My work was saltin’ herrings
The whole of the long day.

And sometimes from the Saltin’ shed
I scarce could drag my feet,
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along thc pebbly street.

I’d always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn.

I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear.

A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale.

He drove me out and shut the door.
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see.

The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green,
The little straws were turnin round
Across the bare boreen.

I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin’s byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin’ her mornin’ fire.

She drew from me my story –
My money’s all used up,
And still, with pityin’, scornin’ eye,
She gives me bite and sup.

She says my man will surely come
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I’m movin’ round,
Without doors or within,

Pilin’ the wood or pilin’ the turf,
Or goin’ to the well,
I’m thinkin’ of my baby
And keenin’ to mysel’.

And Sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin’ wide His door,
God lights the stats, His candles,
And looks upon the poor.

So now, ye little childer,
Ye won’t fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin’ looks
And pity Moll Magee.

W.B. Yeats

Is Our Children Learning?

September 9, 2012 § 1 Comment

When I think about all the issues being discussed during this election, I’m reminded of the early 90’s—a time when I became certain that terrorist attacks would happen in this country eventually, yet no one seemed to think about it at all. Of course people were thinking about it, but the belief that “it can’t happen here,” was very potent.

Today, the threat is climate change, and it’s discussed all the time, yet even so it seems to me that nobody is taking it seriously. So much talk of America not being able to compete in the global marketplace, of looming Medicare costs, yet no mention of the costs of accelerating disaster clean-up, soaring food prices as droughts deepen, or the warfare that historically arises over water rights. I’m talking about warfare between cities and states in the Western U.S.

I don’t how when any of this will happen or how it will play out but if I were raising children, I would be far more concerned about preparing them for this than for Harvard or competing against the Chinese.

How does one prepare for this? The first thing is to dismantle the idea that it can’t happen here, that America “the greatest country in the world,” is somehow immune to the future. What are parents—those with choices—doing? Focusing intently on their kids’ grades and sports teams. Being well educated and learning to compete are, in theory, advantages but not when the education doesn’t take into account the realities ahead, and not when the sports mania seems mostly about reducing the chaos of life into a tidy win/lose. Never mind how over-parenting is making this generation even less capable of adapting to change than mine or my parents’ was.

As an 11 -15 year old, I was fascinated with books about survival: I must have read Kontiki half a dozen times. That story: in 1947, Thor Heyerdahl became convinced that people from South America would have settled Polynesia and he set out to prove by crossing the Pacific on a raft with a crew of 6. This sotry of storms, sharks, vulnerability and the unknown resonated with me because I was recovering from great family trauma. I knew the focus of my life was endurance and survival and though the situation of Thor Heyerdahl was, for me at that time, a metaphor, I would have recognized any attempt to teach me what I needed to know.

I learned to survive but not to prosper. Most of what I’ve accomplished has been the result of early financial privilege, talent and endurance, not adaptability or risk-taking and though I know depression is clouding my vision, I find it hard to see my life as anything but a ruin. I’m still focused, day-to-day, on psychological survival, to the point that financial survival often feels secondary. One must be alive to need to eat.

Sudden loss always feels like a punishment. When security vanishes, self-confidence withers. Shock paralyzes until you learn to process shock, which I never have. Most people won’t lose a father to suicide at 10, and don’t have a brain that tips naturally to the dark side, but the changes about to overtake us are going to visit the same level of shock on an entire generation.

We can’t teach children what to do about the climate change that is already happening and inevitable. There are too many variables. But we can teach them that life is by its nature full of unexpected loss and change; we can use stories and tell our own stories; we can forget team sports and spend that time on adventure, teaching kids to react to novel situations rather than perfect a series of swim strokes or touchdowns.

Catastrophe Theory II

The foot goes forward, yes.
Yet there are roots. And a giant orb
which focuses its cyclopic eye
on a moiré morning.
When the microcosm is dry—it’s earth;
wet—it’s water.

Water, reeds, electric eel: one possibility.
Sun, reeds, dust mote and mite: another.
Whatever the elements
(it’s urban/it’s pastoral,
it’s empty/it’s open), the theory says
it could always be worse.

Until it is. Then theory fails,
leaving a tracer mark.
From blood you come to blood
you go. Sudden things happen
inside a frame. A flame is
lit. Look

at those pathetic wiggly squiggles.
Inferno or garden?
An immeasurable distance
sizzles between them.
Watching it all. But taking so little in.
Just what will fit on the flat

of a glass lens. The ticker is hopeful.
Pathetic fallacy.
Look at the numbers move.
The mystery of ticks.
One per second, sixty per Mickey.
Four becomes ten, one in six

bombs falls in a bushel, a basket,
a two o’clock casket. Do you wish to stay
connected? The seen blurs
into the just heard. A bird outside the wide
open window. The warm day
of March. It changes. It has

all changed. The world
as a distracting disaster.
MY, what little SENSE you make, said the wolf
to Mary Jo. The theory rests
on a tipping point.
The clock steps in a direction.

Mary Jo Bang

The Telltale Nurse

August 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

photo by J.W Diehl

Bad relapse of CFS…weak, headachey, swollen glands, neurological problems…and I’m leaving for California in 2 days. What fun. Hard to believe I got through 15 years of this & worse.

I got a surprise in the mail the other day: a check for $36.31, a rebate awarded me as the result of The Affordable Care Act. My insurance company (back when I had health insurance) didn’t spend 80% of revenues on claims, so now must refund us all…it’s a nice feeling, though what can you buy for $36 these days? If you add in a Groupon (I’m all about Groupon these days), a dinner out at a restaurant nobody likes. A month of Fresh Step unscented kitty litter. A ticket and a half to a play at the heavily subsidized Signature Theater.

Last week, Charles and I saw Heartless, Sam Shephard’s newest, which is your basic 20th century dysfunctional family drama with a heart transplant from a murdered 10-year-old inserted into the slot incest, madness, and alcoholism traditionally fill. I knew what I was getting into—the play was part of a subscription package or I never would have gone—and it had its moments of effectiveness, but I kept thinking of how much more interesting it would have been without Ma, Sis and absent Pa. (The mother was brilliantly acted by Lois Smith but aging, nasty, narcissistic parents who won’t shut up need to take a 100 year leave of absence from the American theater. Yes, we get it that they’re more human than anyone else. So’s my cat.)

I would put the lady with the grave-robbed heart into a Christopher Durang play where she’d try to fit in with the other suburban mothers drinking martinis and trashing their husbands but her real life would consist of running her fingers up and down her fabulous scar in mall dressing rooms. Of course, she’d never remember to pick up the kids, who’d be played by a changing cast of naked dolls.

The best part was when the murdered girl, Elizabeth, who naturally lives with the family as a symbolic wound, tries to fuck the new boyfriend just to see if he’ll notice. Now, why interpret this psychologically? Isn’t it a better story if this is a real ghost and that ghosts can and will fuck your boyfriend if you leave him alone for five minutes? Especially if you go so far as to dress them up in a nurse uniform and make them do household chores?

Elizabeth was my favorite character but that was probably because she spent the last half of the play with bloody feet and I kept looking at those feet, marveling how real the blood looked, and wondering when she was going to get around to washing them. (She rubbed and rubbed with a washcloth but the blood didn’t come out. Was that symbolic too? Or did the director also find those bloody feet inexplicably cute?) And I thought Delilah would be perfect for the role.


New York’s had hideous weather lately, which I’m assuming will continue for the next thousand years. An article in the Times not long ago was taking about NYC being underwater by 2100, and not just financially. It will happen before that, I think. My city, which I’ve seen change so much over 50 years, will only have time for a few more incarnations before it becomes a vast fishy ruin, with coastal squatters left on the high ground: those with nowhere else to go, old ladies refusing to go anywhere, wild Pekingese.

If I live another 30 years—but wait, I won’t live another 30 years, and not just because I don’t have health insurance. Long before that the climate will be biting ass-sized chunks out of civilization and the younger generation, in fear and loathing, will force-march us to Las Vegas. We’ll be locked inside the casinos, no AC, slot machines spitting Indian-head nickels, nothing to eat but Big Gulps and fries. “Scarlett,” the old man will whine, “Is there anything else but potatoes? I’m so tired of potatoes.” (This is a paraphrase. I don’t have my copy of Gone with the Wind anymore. It fell in the bathtub once too often.)

Or they’ll put the assault rifles inside with us, and that will be all she wrote.

Grade School’s Large Windows

weren’t built to let the sunlight in.

They were large to let the germs out.

When polio, which sounds like the first dactyl

of a jump rope song, was on the rage,

you did not swim in public waters.

The awful thing was an iron lung.

We lined up in our underwear to get the shot.

Some kids fainted, we all were stung.

My cousin Speed sat in a vat

of ice cubes until his scarlet fever waned,

but from then on his heart was not the same.

My friend’s girlfriend was murdered in a hayfield

by two guys from Springfield.

Linda got a bad thing in her blood.

Everybody’s grandmother died.

Three times, I believe, Bobby shot his mother.

Rat poison took a beloved local bowler.

A famous singer sent condolences.

In the large second floor corner room

of my 4th grade class the windows were open.

Snow, in fat, well-fed flakes

floats in where they and the chalk-motes meet.

And the white rat powder, too, sifts down

into a box of oatmeal

on the shelf below.

-Thomas Lux

For the Rivers

March 23, 2012 § Leave a comment

Shall we gather at the river? If there is a river, if we can find it, if it hasn’t departed, leaving its stony bed naked to the sky, if it hasn’t spilled over its banks and poured through our streets and houses…

Wednesday night, at the Cathedral’s Evening of Witness, we ended with the hymn whose title is my first sentence, and heard tales of the power of water and the cruelty of men. The Voice of Witness book series, founded by Dave Eggers and Lola Vollen, provided first-person narratives, read aloud by poets and our storyteller, Laura Simms. Dan Brights’s story: he was one of many prisoners left locked in the jail during Hurricane Katrina. As the water rose and no one came—not to feed them, not to help them—the men gathered their strength and broke out of their cells—hours of kicking metal—then dug through concrete to rescue other prisoners. Many drowned. Meanwhile, the guards sat outside. Waiting, he said.

Patricia Smith read her poem, 34,  about the 34 elderly nursing home residents left to die during the disaster: fierce and funny, she recreated all the voices of the 34.  Nicole Cooley read Evacuation, her long poem about waiting to hear what happened to her parents who stayed in New Orleans through the hurricane. This poem was quieter, low-key, but just as powerful; her narrator is middle-class, with middle class expectations, yet her fear and outrage is the same fear and outrage Patricia expressed, that Dan Bright expressed, that we all remember. As another woman, Diana, said (recorded by Voice of Witness), “I’ve never experienced conditions this bad, not even in my home village in Peru. There, when disasters happened, aid came. Here, nothing. It was worse here.”

We saw riveting photographs of Japan after the tsunami that took over 15,000 lives, and photographs of Katrina and other places, rivers, deserts (provided by the Magnum Foundation).  The Cathedral choir sang, and the orchestra played Handel and Liszt, and Prayer of the Whale, based on a poem by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold, composed by Christina Whitten Thomas. I kept looking behind me before it started, and during the first pause, checking attendance. A lot of people came at the last minute, or after the opening: the last time I looked there were rows and rows of people in the dimness of the Cathedral, hundreds, stretching far back, all seeming a little more solemn, more serious than an ordinary audience. I don’t  know what they were thinking but I imagine them as spellbound as I was.

Marilyn Nelson, our Poet in Residence, read Nothing Stranger about the strangeness and wonder of human beings in the universe,  and the wonder of the stars and distances, the celestial forces. She looked like a celestial force, with her spangled jacket, long gown and exquisitely done hair. But all the poets were beautiful. We only allow beautiful poets in the Cathedral.

At the conclusion, Amy Goodman spoke with passion about the need to fight back against the corporations controlling water, the do-nothing politicians, the swiftly-approaching climate catastrophe.

Yes, that. Not the disasters of 2004, 2005, 2011, but the future.  Will things will be better, worse, the same…? Not the same, never the same. Water will rise up and clobber our frail bodies, dismantle our houses. Water will grow scarce, be fouled with agricultural run-off, methane from fracking, any number of pollutants. There will be fewer fish and animals, more people. Even with the diseases of crowding and dirty water (which kill so many children you would think we were like those “lesser” creatures that routinely let the weakest offspring die), there will be more people.

And it’s spring in New York; in March, the flowers of late April are blooming. The trees are all in blossom: the puffy pinks and whites so surprising—every year, surprising—against the geometric buildings. I was talking with Tom Miller from the Cathedral as we walked to the reception. “At this rate, can you imagine what summer will be like?” I asked. “Maybe will just have a long spring,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Four months of this.” Tom has a sunny disposition.

But yes, four months of spring flowers would make up for a lot, though not really for dead children.

I sat in the audience and listened and I thought about water, about the lake of my childhood that I loved like a lover, wanted to love that way, arms and legs straining against the cold humming depth, trying to make myself into something that could truly embrace a lake. I remembered the New Jersey ocean that flung me around, and the gentler Florida ocean where I sometimes swim at night, when the bruise-blue of the water invisibly meets the sky. I thought of how I love reading about journeys by water—I read Kontiki a dozen times in early adolescence, indoors, outdoors, in the bath, in the car, up a tree—and houseboats, and actual and invented cultures that live on rafts on the water, people never leaving the body of the river.

I don’t actually like boat travel. I only want to do it in my imagination, and I mourn the fact that this mode of experience isn’t as natural to me as it once was. I put it in words better, which may fool you. But once I really lived there, in the endless place, the only place on earth as vast and mysterious as the ocean: our first and last and in-between home, which we will all lose. I believe, though, that we can trust water—rivers, rain, lakes, the sea with its secret powers—to come up with something new, even if we all stupid ourselves to destruction.

Let’s not, though.  People are having babies. Let them drink clean water. Let them gather at the river, dare each other to jump from high branches into the river, make love beside the river, scatter the ashes of their dead in the river.

That would be us, the ashes. I want the cold, dark water when I die. I want to know what they call the Styx on the other side. Maybe it’s the shore where everyone picnics, where the dogs we left behind who have found us again play, and the herons stand on one leg, where a hippo rears out of the mud with its great bulbous snout and female sway, and we all sing hymns of Earth, Heaven and Hell. And, you know, eat the cold meats, the spring salad, the cake; and drink the crystal water and make love.  Here’s a poem you probably haven’t read.


Be careful if you take this flower into your house. The peony has a thousand lips. It is pink and white like the lady’s skirt and smells sharp and sweet as cinnamon. There are a thousand ants living inside but you will only see one or two at a time. I am like that down there–pink and busy inside. The dark is a bolt of cloth, crushed and blue, and I unfurl against it.  If you lie down on the floor of the closet the hems of silk will lick you. My own gown is thin as the skin of dried grass so I can see the ants dancing down there. The night has big paws.  I imagine the wool of the bears, the cloth of monkeys. The night smells like vetiver and cedar. His mouth is cool with mint and warm with rum, and I am not afraid as he rubs his wool against me. I saw the bear dancing at the circus when I was small. He was wearing a green felt cap with gold bric-a-brac and kept by a thin wire thread. My brother bought me a sucker for the train ride home, and I am like that now on the inside, burning soft with lemon. What fruit do you like best? I like tangerines.  And the night leaves me these. A small paper bag on the bedside table. The wrought iron and roses like an altar. I am glowing now.  My teeth are stitching kisses to my fist. I go to the river. My legs are frogs legs. Tiny wands, see how they glisten. A thousand fish swim through me. I am a boat now. I know no anchor. My hair unfurls, copper and cinnamon. Look how it opens, beautiful world.

Eve Alexandra

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