Apologies, but there will be no more hell from me. Instead, suckle

this handbasket filled with thistle that I gathered

when my knees were scorched pink from the sun lashing out at me—

you two so similar, I swear it! So despicably sweet,

singeing, incomplete. Did you know no one would love the sun if not

for a dark veil trailing behind him, carried by a face

knowing too much his sin? Don’t worry, I’ll tell the good stories. But,

that is not all you asked of me. I must pencil in time

for the fiddling, dancing, and juggling. Ladies, when a man is in strands

it is much better to cut off your hands. Your work

can’t be stitching together those who gnaw at their own skin, those who

crawl inside their woman like the horse she is. I am

happy. I know how to make heat. I come from a long line of sweating

women who after praying for others ought to give

themselves something. So, I make the drive downtown wearing nothing

but a nightgown, stop by the Dairy Queen, buy me

an ice cream. I wish I had a better story for you, but this one is about me.

It is a trifle to hold a cone with bone, but I’m learning.