Wednesday, May 16, 2012
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 out your hard heart? where are my boxing gloves to smash your face in? I am just mittens, limp, fingerless and all thumbs. opposable but disposable, could be permissible, but just dismissible-you don't remember anything even though you were there. and I am just mittens-laid out, laid off, laid on, imposable. intricate thread patterns meant to envelope sweet silky hands with very little muscle.
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...