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It's the words that sing, they soar and descend. I bow to them. I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them. I love words so much. The ones I wait for greedily... they glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew... I stalk certain words. They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem. I catch them in midflight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives. And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them. I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves. Everything exists in the word.
He was an odd-looking man. His face hung large and white, creamy. He wore brown clothes and he moved slowly, with his head turned down. But he liked my mother, you could tell. Some people did. You could see it. Strangers almost always love my mother. And even if you hate her, can't stand her, even if she's ruining your life, there's something about her, some romance, some power. She's absolutely herself. No matter how hard you try, you'll never get to her. And when she dies, the world will be flat, too simple, reasonable, too fair.
- Anywhere But Here by Mona Simpson