My heart a hurting fisted lump in my chest.
A mean wrong face
Odd, lousy smile
Grim gripped lips and yes that measure, reserved, cold, the changes she takes and has to take and will take.
My intuition clears for me like a pool of clearing water after the mud settles. O I see the frogs on the mud bed.
I gave her a mad wild still stony glare that snuffed hers out.
As if a great muscular owl were sitting on my chest, its talons clenching and constricting my heart
The white hardboiled egg, the green head of lettuce, the two suave pink veal chops dared me to do anything with them.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath