Issue 161, Spring 2002
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
I miss the misery. I knew I would, even as I leaped
away from my brother to the tribal drumming
of my heart: Britain was more ancient then, the stones
more palpably gray, our gods more resonant, more
actively above us. I ripped off my clothes, stuck
plants in my skin and for the first time was no heir
except the evening; the marjoram
and hollyhock; the mud I rubbed over my cheeks
like rouge; just enough terror to crest my hesitation.