Sunday, June 1, 2014


I washed windows today while Bob Dylan sang to me, his rough voice, my edgy swipes. I talked to a muse today, his rough voice, my wince. I sprinkled powder on Sophie's clammy hands today, clipped her nails, faced the care squarely even in the moment of loathing. I curled myself around her, shut my eyes when she did, breathed her in, would we could do it all again, I breathed, the fetal curl, back inside me, different this time, please, let it be different this time.


  1. Life after life after life until we get it right? Who knows? Not me.
    You do get it right, though. Honestly. Right now with what it is, you get it so very right.

  2. stunning writing, elizabeth. you are a wonder.

  3. You are, indeed, a wonder. With as fine a muse as I can imagine. xo

  4. Moving me to tears. The photo - perfect. The words, raw without self-pity. Just real and true. You capture the pulse of emotion in each word...with the genius none can teach.

  5. I can feel the solace in the curling together. And there is solace in washing windows, too, so long as there is glorious music to do it by.




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