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2004-03-03 || 2:54 p.m. || in photographs. under wrists. || all of the girls who didn't quite make it but left dents on your tin can heart anyhow. in some cosmic osmotic process i acquired bits and pieces of them, genetic instructions that flaked off into the map of me while my mum's DNA was out taking a smoke break. i have the girl from arcata's wide hips. i position my tongue to make the s sound the same way as the girl who worked on the pier. i squint in photographs like the girl in chile you fell in love with, the one who made her own bikinis fashioned from american magazines and happened to work full time in a bordello. you don't recognize them because i am your daughter and that was ancient history, but my mother does and flinches at each manifestation like an unexpected pinprick, like the momentary recognition of outside forces and diverging pasts and the magical properties of past loves. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |