She had a harder life than she deserved. Blue-eyed, silver-haired, buxom, bawdy churchgoing line dancer in cowboy boots, there was nothing I couldn't tell her. Didn't leave any shameful thing out. And no matter what, she still called me "cupcake."
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
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