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squiggly wiggly

Once upon a time, in a faraway place deep within the waters of creation, a minuscule strand of RNA, squiggly and wiggly, developed, looking for a home, a place of comfort. It approached the closest pod, a cell, that accidentally left a door open. Not wanting to be a bother, the RNA slipped inside into a closet, where it did what it had to do, grow and become itself. Eventually it spread, splitting the closet door, filling the entire pod with duplication. Scientists worked twenty-five hours a day. Yes, twenty-five hours because time had warped and days were longer to rid the interloper from its home. Eventually, the answer was found. RNA strands were given homes in dying cells that needed plumping up.

Recent posts

incompatible temperaments

Remember when we went to the gallery and found the landscape? You said the piece was little more than primordial bits, shapes, lines, surfacing from chaos, like fragments of us. I suggested it was integrated, balanced, and far more ordered than confused. We placed it over the mantle. Now, in the divorce, we each grapple for ownership of it, the pictified essence of incompatible temperaments.

forgotten, confused

Her recollection was vague, faded. Had it ever happened? Possibly a dream, forgotten, confused. He looks at her. She should ask. Do you...? Did you...? His blink washes away a tear. She remembers.

blackberry tea

Unremembered, blotted out, lost in the tick-tock of time, in an old trunk, in a dusty attic, was a picture, resurrected, refurbished, recolored, into a label for Aunt Daisy's Resilient Blackberry Tea

A Valentine Story

She received a valentine once in the second grade, a pretty card of two Dutch children, signed Larry. Larry lived two blocks after hers. They kinda walked home together. He mostly ran around trees, jumped on porches, pretending to be a super hero. She saved her valentine in a cigar box with a chestnut, some marbles, and a 7 Up bottle cap., After fifty years, she thinks about energy, DNA, and the odds of Larry landing on the moon or in prison.

cracked egg

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.