the kind of lush, saucy woman you'd call a firecracker. picture of her that's still with me: her laughing face rising from a 3-foot high mound of lace & tulle & sparkle-her wedding dress- piled around her in a bathroom stall.
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.
1 comment:
Oh, there's that killer punch at the end again.
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