Jan 10, 2013

This Could All Be Yours

Written by Meghan Privitello

Read by Kimberly Grey

I robbed the ceramicist of his clay    so I could make a hundred pinched 
brown cows and call myself mother.     When you don't know what your 
life wants,      take the plains to the mountains and listen to the echo of 
peaks knocking against the sky.         It will tell you things.         In other 
countries, this might be the start of a war.         Here, it is the last act of 
intimacy before our borders become electric.      When I dream about a 
boy growing in my belly,  I call him stupid and learn how not to love him
before he makes a sunset out of his independence from my hole. I was 
taught to steal whatever I could to make myself happy  so I stole every 
life preserver not caring about what it means to drown.      On the farm, 
the pigs sniff each other   until they don't know the difference between 
the sweet and the dead.   My secret is that I am a fingerprint.    I do not 
know how to fall in love without it being criminal.        The fence around 
the yard is a brief paragraph on how to own everything.    If this were a 
coloring book,   the black crayon would try its damndest to darken only 
what is truly dark.      In real life, the colors ask paintings which parts of 
them are the symbols of sadness.          The painting freezes in its own 
headlights.        Like us it is guilty of not having anything more to prove.

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