Only one week until the Kentucky Craft Market in Lexington. Booth 317. I will have specially priced scarves for exhibiting artists that want to add a little drama to their "look!"
With candles burning and orange juice, fresh squeezed, beside me, I licked the juice from my fingers. She brought oranges with her the first time. That’s when I started looking for them. The harder I looked, the fuller I became, and the juicier they were.
I have begun to read voraciously to know just what to say at the right time. When I sleep at night, I think about what I read, and when I make love, I think about what I will tell her. I think about ideas. They’ll run over my lips and I’ll flick them out with my tongue. I think about stories that I’ll whisper, and when my breathing gets heavier, I’ll think about poems I’ll yell, and when he kisses me on the back, I’ll remember things I forgot, and the excitement will roll me over, and I’ll forget where I was. It never gets crowded in our bedroom. There is always room for all of us, and when things start getting confusing, I disappear for a while, float up to the ceiling, take a slow ride on the fan and re-enter when I’m fresh again, and we all think it is for the first time.
The poems that get digested get sent out in the mail, and when the rejections come, she listens, and he wipes away the tears, and I weave them into pillow cases, the kind that crinkle to the rhythm of love, and there are more poems popping from the toaster. Someone forgot to butter the bread. I can’t remember if her hair is long or short, dark or blond. Sometimes, it’s one or the other, but those aren’t the things that matter. It’s her voice that matters—the one I try to mimic, till I learn it by heart—the one I dream and it becomes hybrid. The Garden Girls Letters and Memoir