I Was Good At Digging Holes. It

Picasso.” He Whispers Like A Priest. “picasso. Who Saw The Truth. Who Painted The Truth, Molded It, Ripped From The Earth With Two Angry Hands.

So, She Tells Me, The Words Dribbling Out With The Cranberry Muffin Crumbs, Commas Dunked In Her Coffee.

We've Fallen Down On Our Responsibility To Our Children By Somehow Creating This World Where They're Surrounded By Images Of Sexuality; And Yet, We As Adults Struggle To Talk To Kids Honestly About Sex, The Rules Of Dignity And Consent.

If I Ever Form A Clan, We'll Be The Anti-cheerleaders And Walk Under The Bleacher Forming Mild Acts Of Mayhem.

If I Had Lady-spider Legs, I Would Weave A Sky Where The Stars Lined Up. Matresses Would Be Tied Down Tight To Their Trucks, Bodies Would Never Crash Through Windshields. The Moon Would Rise Above The Wine-dark Sea And Give Babies Only To Maidens And Musicians Who Had Prayed Long And Hard. Lost Girls Wouldn't Need Compasses Or Maps. They Would Find Gingerbread Paths To Lead Them Out Of The Forest And Home Again. They Would Never Sleep In Silver Boxes With White Velvet Sheets, Not Until They Were Wrinkled-paper Grandmas And Ready For The Trip.