Loving Herself
Back in the days when she wantedto run away, she plotted her new, improved story. SheĠd work as a waitress in a diner across the mountains, a small place where she could count out her days in the smiles of new-town strangers. "More coffee?" she'd ask, and a woman at the counter would tell her life history in spoonfuls. And always the customer at the counter would share her own face, her own fears, her specific longings, and between the two of them not many answers would appear. Back in the days when she wanted to run away, she called herself new, improved names. On Saturday she was Bijoux, on Sunday Rosalinda. On Monday she had to be herself sitting in the crowded classroom, alphabetically proper and insane with desire to find solace. On Thursday a substitute came, and smiling, he unfurled a chart, the anatomy of the universe, mapped in poems, lyrical, political, rivers of stanzas and forms, words that were footprints from the poets' hearts. And in the poems she found home.
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