All Of Our Actions Have In Their

Women Are Strong, Strong, Terribly Strong. We Don't Know How Strong Until We're Pushing Out Our Babies.

We Have These Earthly Bodies. We Don't Know What They Want. Half The Time, We Pretend They Are Under Our Mental Thumb, But That Is The Illusion Of The Healthy And The Protected. Of Sedate Lovers. For The Body Has Emotions It Conceives And Carries Through Without Concern For Anyone Or Anything Else. Love Is One Of Those, I Guess. Going Back To Something Very Old Knit Into The Brain As We Were Growing. Hopeless. Scorching. Ordinary.

This So Gnawed At Him On Some Nights That He Lay Awake Wondering Just How Many Unknown And Similarly Inconsequential Accidents And Bits Of Happenstance Were At This Moment Occurring Or Failing To Occur In Order To Ensure He Took His Next Breath, And The Next.

Love Won't Be Tampered With, Love Won't Go Away. Push It To One Side And It Creeps To The Other. Throw It In The Garbage And It Springs Up Clean. Try To Root It Out And It Only Flourishes. Love Is A Weed, A Dandelion That You Poison From Your Heart. The Taproots Wait. The Seeds Blow Off, Ticklish, Into A Part Of The Yard You Didn't Spray. And One Day, Though You Worked, Though You Prodded Out Each Spiky Leaf, You Lift Your Eyes And Dozens Of Fat Golden Faces Bob In The Grass.

He Had A Thousand-year-old Stare.