She Has The Gift Of Accepting Her

She Has Given Birth To Vagabonds. She Is The Keeper Of All These Names And Numbers Now, Numbers She Once Knew By Heart, Numbers And Addresses Her Children No Longer Remember.

She Watched His Lips Forming The Words, At The Same Time She Heard Them Under Her Skin, Under Her Winter Coat, So Near And Full Of Warmth That She Felt Herself Go Hot.

A Lot Of My Upbringing Was About Denying Or Fretting Or Evading.

He Tries To Peel The Image From The Sticky Yellow Backing, To Show Her The Next Time He Sees Her, But It Clings Stubbornly, Refusing To Detach Cleanly From The Past.

The First Sentence Of A Book Is A Handshake, Perhaps An Embrace.