Sometimes I Worry About How often dead things find their way into my bed: the mouse that swallowed poison, all the sunbugs at my parents’ house, the torn bird under the sheets. But I do not take them as signs I am a woman cursed. My doctor sees to it that I bleed, shares with me a box of apricot rugelach between rounds of test. On the hottest days, I swim out to the center of the lake, and all the lives I will lead kick against me.
-Published in Front Porch Journal, Issue 34.