“Oh, you would’ve liked a better ending!” she exclaims. “That’s too bad. Next time, show up to the right story.” She opens her heart and says, “Hmm, let’s see what is given to me today to write about.” She is hoping for a new page.
I want to be a self-starter, she thinks, I want to finish with sparks. And then she is little girl, catching fireflies in the summer. Each glow, a story; each glow, an ordinary sun.
She paces on the line; squeezes between two words and then line-jumps. She is glad to see the margin, and leans there for a minute. It bends, bridging into another margin. Even the heart has architecture, she thinks.
This is her great love: this figuring; this terror-slaying; this air raid of wonder.
I want to be involved with a stanza, she thinks. She wants something to call her own. A page turns. “I love you,” it says, “I love you.” “I love you.”
© Umansky 2014
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