On my evening walk, I am the girl with two heads — a schizoid startled by strangers. My heart leaps like a fish.
A boatman once told me, hate swims down the spine and becomes a wish. Women who elope to storm center,
grow beards and make mistakes. I stroke my chin reflexively. The moon drips swirls of consolations. Still my
mind is a monster of menstruations. There is a cosmos inside of me that wants to erupt. I picture my spleen expanding,
my kidneys shooting stars. In the lawn outside my neighbor’s house, a rage of roses. Their thorns like the fangs of a wolf.