gently, gently. why do i love the goose-girl? is it my heart compels me, sheathed in bravery, or insubordination? to think i am so important, to know how the muscle lies on your bones, to know the bright and dark places of your soul. to pretend i am a god in order to love the goddess, the keeper of my tears, the one who touches my bruises in blind curiousity, though she did create them.

i am a little bird singing your praises. i risk myself to appear safe to you. your hand in sleep fascinates me, it is knowable and crushable when it is not in flight. and i want to know you, i do.

she makes me forget myself. she makes me remember things i thought were swept away, rubbish from a past life, random and sharp and not quite faded from memory. she makes me know myself, in lieu of knowing her.

9/10/96