I am the palm touching my cheek,
and hiding my face,
I am dead nerve endings--pulsating alive again,
I am the little girl who cuddles vicious, heat-struck
malamutes and singing, oblivious, clinging to them
nuzzling --giving too much love--accidentally
stepping on their tails--too close to their open jaws-
Oh, friendly beast, love me too for the moment,
meet this challenge, be the only one who can do it,
I am the blood congealing,
I am the sorry yellow napkin,
I am the old woman's wringing hands
I am the doctor's crooked stitch
Now I am,
a faded scar, I am no pain, but a
Look at me, friends and foes,
I am the one who cares,
but I am the one you say
"this is a who-cares-you
You stupid girl, you clumsy thing,
stop giving so much.
I am the love you reserve for those
who don't deserve you.
I am the love reserved
for the unlovely.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...