No creature's exempt from thirst and desire. So when a friend writes The body is a constellation of joy, I release a long breath, several breaths. I too want to be a shape reclining on the inky canopy, a string of garden lights tethering my left heel to my rib bone, my scapula, my shoulder dome; and the line from there leading down the wrist and to the hand, which is holding either a pencil or a mug filled with coffee and froth, or a trowel and a bit of cake on a dessert spoon. All around me, silky tufts of milkweed are falling at their own soft speed. And I am not alone, I am unafraid.
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