Sign up to our newsletter
This is my story.It is mine alone because I am the one who needsto tell it.I am the one who is still here,no longer stage right but
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
Toothless, she kisseswith fleshy lipsrounded, like mouthof a bottle, all wet
She bruises your facealmost, with twoloving tree-root hands.
A plant called loveA plant called hate
I grew them both in my garden.The plant called love was hard work.