They say she wears a mask that could launch a thousand ships and that with the purse of her lips, the white-gloved hands she uses to light thin, pretty cigarettes and drink Manhattans that she would launch them.
“We pass it every year, the way the parade passes. Then we arrive home with the last notes of the song, evidence against our staying power, our packaging, upon return, found intact.”
“I miss my brother’s 18th birthday. He spends it kneeling in pews and tossing crosses of stems and swallowing Christfuls of dirt. No one falls into the pit. Oh, adult. Fresh mint.”
