We bought a house made of mud and straw.
Thieves stole my sewing machine
and my turquoise ring.
Gilliam Cummings – Amie
Clotilde found me in the hayloft, sticking straws under my nails. She
saw where I’d scratched a broken cross on my wrist where veins sketch a
blue delta. And she shrieked, the cuts smeared with blood. Qu’est-ce que
tu fais? T’es folle, Fernande! What could I say? I thought, Here. Dig in.
Christina Rossetti – A Triad
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
I never could find them, my cat’s bones,
though I know still they are somewhere near,
laid beneath the hackberry we cut down
to make room for the study we are building.