In Summary

I want to tell you about my life here. How the exposed brick in my bedroom mutes the sunlight in the afternoon, and yet that touch of red inflames once my lights are on and the sky is dark with the dull pink lights of exit signs.

I want to tell you that the Christmas Cactus on my kitchen table isn't dying like I thought it would, and it surprises me that I can actually take care of something that grows. I've taken to wearing knee-length skirts with boots, and my hair is very long. Occasionally, I can recognize my neighbors as we pass on the sidewalk and it's so small, yet thrilling, for me to exchange a "Hello."

I have to carry my laundry over a bridge that's over a highway to get to the laundromat. I tried to cook an omelet tonight and I still burned the pan. My top left wisdom tooth is slamming in sideways, and it's been talking with my cheek as I chew. And lately, it's become more difficult to accurately describe myself, because when you leave your beach, you can only keep so many rocks, and I've collected so much glass here.

I would like to show you the Rorschach stain on my couch where I spilled ink while drawing; I would like to rest with you from the peak of the mountain-stacked poems I've been writing.

What I would give to pass a gentle word to you like it's an egg about to hatch and to hear you answer after I asked,
"God, is it alive?
What's its name?
What is its weight?"

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