In another story it would end like this:
when the heart grew weak from too many lashings,
when the soulmates vanished or disappointed,
she took off for a penthouse greenhouse
where lilies danced in a fan's warm breezesand nothing could touch her. And sure enough
nothing did: not her unborn blushes,
let alone guests from the cold, with their glad red faces.
Her greenhouse turned green with clippings. But then
one night, sipping strong mint tea, she remembered
the stir a branch makes when spring rain bends it,
how it dips and veers in joy, in fear, for dear life.
The splendor of all her wounds waiting to happen
entered her, and she wrote a story:
"I summon hunger and risk, those lovely
scattershot graces," was the way it began.
By rachel wetzsteon