Somehow I Wasn't Adding Up

My Backyard Was Replete With Madness, It Just Grew Indigenously In South Florida.

Any Place, Then, Can Become A Cemetery. All It Takes Is Your Body. It's Not Fair, I Think, And I Get This Petulant Wish For Ugly Flowers And Mourners, My Mother's Old Familiar Grief. Somebody I Love To Tend My Future Grave. Probably This Is The Wrong Thing To Be Wishing For.

My Older Sister Has Entire Kingdoms Inside Of Her, And Some Of Them Are Only Accessible At Certain Seasons, In Certain Kinds Of Weather.

A Food Truce, The Picnic Suspension Of Oedipal Feeling That Permits The Generations To Love Each Other At Family Reunions.

It's Funny To Think About The Uncanny Reflexively, As An Author Who Is Perhaps Gradually Becoming Aware Of My Own Hidden Secrets. Accessing That Shadowy Territory Really Requires The Physical Act Of Writing.