The craft of writing empathy into action

    If, if, I cease to exist, or co-exist in your
world, suffering is progress. Flesh museum.
    Bone museum. Open to interpretation.

    The caves are over there, breathing. It is important
    that you know this. This information.

    I think of you in moonlight. I think of you
    when vodka spills from our glasses
    onto the shoreline of the carpeted floor.

    Onto my pantyhose. Onto the fabric of
    my skin. My body cannot keep all of this down
    under the ancient pink. Hurt has stunned

    me. Un-healed me. Wounded me. I know
    your anger. Your kind of superiority. Your self-hatred.
    It is only a reflection from youth. A twisted

    crack in the system that is called illusion.
    It is only ritual that will mark you until the
    end of time. There's a lot to disguise.

    A violin does not only make beautiful
    music. Photographs make me long for something
    we once had. I was no bride. Had no

    groom like my mother once did. I wish
I could be beautiful like the tribe of her.
    Instead the ocean calls to me. Embraces

    all of me. My lithe limbs are green, then
    purple. Yes, the ocean calls to me like a
    lover. This morning-image secret. I'm

    homeward. Tracking driftwood into
the house.
On the outside, you will find me there. And,

as the waves come in explosions, so
    does the healing. So, does Jean Rhys'
    Dominica. So, does Brazil. So, does China.