We Are Made of Star Stuff

She becomes the chair she sits in, the drapes on the window, the wallpaper and the wall. She
doesn’t get to fall apart. She gets to absorb, to recalibrate. She isn’t going to yell. In fact, she isn’t
even going to cry (she hopes). And she knows she isn’t going to leave. She has nothing to
threaten with. She becomes the chair she sits in.

wind-swept plain . . .
sage-grouse gather
beneath the morning moon