How It Could Be

Ink comes from ashes and paintbrushes are made of fur. The good ones, my teacher said, are horsehair. I caressed my brush, the long, thick soft fur, and it was only because other people were there I didn’t run it across my lips. A soft paintbrush or an apricot, he two most beautiful feelings on […]

Loose Ends

My Lenten practice is to write “Mercy” on my left hand, in the curve that leads to my thumb, every day, in Sharpie. It is possible that this practice will poison me. I have googled “Sharpie tattoo.” It’s less painful than flogging oneself with thorny branches, though. Anything outside my routine distresses me slightly, so […]

Legs and Toes

Ballet, just at home, with a hand on the edge of my open top dresser drawer, in leggings and a tiny top, so I can see my stomach fully sucked in, if you can hold in your belly, you can support anything, and my butt fully tucked, my spine’s results must be straight for the […]

A Train

The next person who tells me I should write a book, I will stab. I regularly think of dumping all the extant printouts of books I’m working on in the recycling. This isn’t quite dramatic enough, though. I do that all the time, anyway, mark up hard copies, make the corrections, recycle the pages. Then […]