She is always sad like a house on fire - always something wrong.
They grow up and they grow down and grab the earth between their hairy toes and bite the sky with violent teeth and never quit their anger.
Home. Home. Home is a house in a photograph, a pink house, pink as hollyhocks with lots of startled light.
She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.
And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.
But I think diseases have no eyes. They pick with a dizzy finger anyone, just anyone.
People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth.
I know. Is waiting for a car to stop, a star to fall, someone to change her life.
Four Skinny Trees They are the only ones who understand me. I am the only one who understands them.
I wanted to will my blood to stop, my heart to quit its pumping. I wanted to be dead, to turn into the rain, my eyes melt into the ground like two black snails.
Sometimes you get used to the sick and sometimes the sickness, if it is there too long, gets to seem normal.
I don’t know why, but when you treat men bad, they love it.
You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad.
There’s that wide puffy cloud that looks like your face when you wake up after falling asleep with all your clothes on.
Everything is holding its breath inside me. Everything is waiting to explode like Christmas.