On the main route to Amherst, some hooligans have spray painted a “6” in front of the “9” on the road sign.
I wear a lace skirt and sweat while I read aloud in a studio with long mirrors on the walls.
A friend stops by to visit and I go outside to meet her, furry teeth and dirty hair, without a bra. We sit in her car and I say that maybe I’ll start saying that I “divide my time” between Brooklyn and Western Massachusetts, and I’ll sound like a rich lady.
Things are sweet and crooked and horribly tender, and the world is full of evidence, spilling over, everywhere, that there is more than one way to risk your heart.