I’ll hold up your firmament with you, for you, for you, & I’m not afraid now of my name becoming wind, or earth, or yours.
I gave thanks to the summer gods, who put us together, and didn’t question the cause, and processed my flummoxed adolescent emotions in Meat Loaf songs.
My job is to give you a fine dining experience. The one where you cackle at my playful banter and leave nothing but cookie crumbles on the booth, a token of your humble gratitude.
It’s still sleeping-off the hoarfrost, heat drying wet night air, brute & fowl tucked into dwarf cottonwood, chollla...
I. I am the scorned mistress, says the scorned mistress nakedly. She gives up the brilliant golden burnish of girlhood in the time it takes for the motel bathwater to run dry.