The motel door slams shut, leaving me alone and chilled. Two men, such luxury. But I don't have two men, not whole ones, that is. They're mostly just pieces, spare parts, exchanged, fitted, to meet certain needs, basic and otherwise. What spare part do I bring to the equation? I look at the sparkled ceiling and wonder. Glitter, fairy dust?
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.