"And I wasn’t born simply to become bones!" —Arthur Rimbaud
I remember turning 6. Mother stepped smoothly into the room. A crystal ball in her hand. A black and purple dress waved around her body. Silver buckles clattered around her waist. Her hair, unnatural blonde, wild. I abandoned my project of wooden bones and glue, stood up, was told: Ask a silent question—a wish. I’ll tell you the answer.
....
Then she moved her hand all around the glass. Murmuring a sacred dialect. My eyes were as wild as dinosaurs.
