In my dream last night
I was given a ragdoll,
with long white legs
made by Virginia Woolf
when she was just a little girl
and I thought to myself,
that there are some people
that never seem like little girls
like they were born into this world,
fully grown, sprung from the head of Zeus,
and so many writers seem that way.
Last night was a Pink Life kind of night,
where we talk about writing,
until you glance at your watch
and realize how much time has gone by,
while we were gushing and fussing
over poems. Poems that we treat
like little girls with crooked
ponytails. The kind of little girls who
say “Unlikely” when asked if they think
letters will arrive in the mail.
The kind that love the Wizard of Oz,
and ask aloud what the house must have felt
like to find itself suddenly moving from darkness to color.
And we talk about half finished novels.
Half finished novels that act
like teenage boys,
who wreck the car,
who leap off waterfalls,
who fail math class,
who sneak in the window at 2 am after spending
most of the night, trying to unzip their girlfriends jeans,
who are causing so much heartache and worry.
And we talk about it passionately
like we just met today and discovered our shared secret,
not 12 years ago.
And there is so much work that goes into this,
the tending to, this garden, the fear of frost
the threading of words,
gemstones on wires of heartache,
that is how I know that like you,
I was that little girl
and I was that teenage boy,
and so was Virginia, I suppose.
20 hours ago