I'm the little girl cart-wheeling down empty side streets, I'm the face in

The crowd, like a mirror soaked in vengeance because it was dropped one too many times

I am Tattered half sewn hems on petticoats said to be donned, never slipped into

I'm the indifferent mild coal heating fingers that poke through threadbare woolen gloves on bitter winter nights. I am The promise that hangs in the air between us like a Christmas ball just before it shatters.

I am Dickinson (poetess and recluse writing her /my/ life away.)

He is battered roof tiles –the color of mud- in the garden. He is parking lots with five dollar fees and angry barking men as sentries. He is the alcohol on the counter, the smudges on my sneakers, the ranting voice on the radio that I plastered with stickers.