Audio: Read by the author.
I am a woman unlikely to write.
The foggiest ideas come to me
malevolent and hopeless; I have
only the urge to strike them. My mind is
a dark enough place without me drawing
blood from it. But let’s suppose that there is
a spotlight waiting within the heart,
and the heart is innocent because it is
made of paper and can be cut, and the hurt
is good health. A cut would give me reason
to type. I could put my finger on the hurt;
I might like the pressure. What would come
of a paper heart made raw by the spotlight?
Or a plaster head left out in red rain?
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.