When we used to part our hair to one side, the wood.

Bent knees, stealing water from the hole.

The months were like a megaphone.

Our enemies was gas.

The way the apple went.

It was neither sensational nor devoutly feminine.

No, it was our life, and we lived it.

A thousand little greedy hills inside us.

Out there, nine hundred prim hags.

Life is so good when water is what you want.

Mulch me, Mary, we would say.

Give me more dirt with which to fill it tight.