Childhood is a thousand miles away now, a boat on rough seas disappearing into the horizon, like being swallowed by a snake. In my mind, the pigs are an argument.
Each time you do it, you swear it's the last time you'll do it. Bras in the 1970s.
What happens to our voices as we age. Roller skates, go go boots, Chuck Taylors.
What would you give to be born again. Pink roses like clouds on the bathroom wallpaper, soft in the nightlight's glow.
What was the name of the Irish actress again, the one you saw at a distance on the ferry from Le Havre, who moved her head in a way that called attention to her shoulder, grounding your erotic sensibility for the next thirty year? It was like this, then it was like something else, and on and on it went, until we forgot what we were looking at.
Better off than what though? Pausing to watch the crescent moon as it fades in the sky, the horses behind me crunching hay.
What stories no longer work yet still are told, meaning they do work but you don't know why? Ransomed.
Dying, too, takes time. Who among those beautiful early beings would have thought the cross would become a decoration?
My grandmother visits, gentle and beautiful, bearing messages related to my father and his brother. Bringing the Christmas cactuses in from the woods where they spent the summer and early fall.
We never give nothing, only less than was asked. Basements are for orphans and others we only pretend to like.
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