Skipping this writers conference made me feel guilty enough to write a poem.
Valentine Shmalentine, where're my Devorah-hearts at?
Losing stuff, mean people, hair in my food... I rant a bit. And hope for something better.
You are a violent glamour, a dagger carved from obsidian.
Let us know the generousness of wild, abiding and unbounded love.
Infinity wants nothing so much as to fit its limitless rampant vastness into the littlest of spaces.
Knowing other souls: glorious, but maybe the end of fun.
I am elemental-celestial, fashioned by the hands of my ancestors from their very own prayers and bones.
Is it even a leap of faith if you know you can’t help but land softly?
