Now the mulch has come between us seven turns,
I’ve grown dramatic, prone to existential snits.
I wax funereal at lunch.
I wear a little stain beneath my robe.
The woman with the ostrich-leather harness,
I am she. The coat-check tender chasing down the train.
My mother says the feralness in me is unbecoming.
She still puts everything in jars:
wild honey, fruit preserves, the slurry of the heart.
Come hear me talk!
Advance in age beside me and this pine!
Is yours, like mine, the edgeless kind of soft?

This is a premium subscription story. Please make a $4 donation to access the individual story or a $50 donation to access all the stories in Narrative Backstage for a period of one year.

If you are already a user, but not yet logged in, you may login here.
If you are new to Narrative, signing up is FREE and easy.