Self-Help

"You are the man removing my bobby pins, my hair unfurling, the one who saunters in still, grinning then absconding will all of my pulses, over and over again, that long graceful stride toward a city, toward a bathroom, toward a door. I sleep alone this week, my husband gone, rolling into my own empty arms might they be yours, sleep on top of them as if to kill them, and in the morning they are dead as salamis until i massage the blood down into them again with my palm. Sweet, sweet Riva, you said to the blind white place behind my ear. Come live with me and be my lunch."

-- To Fill, Lorrie Moore