What you see and don’t see, how you divide your unfurled gaze, unguarded and vicarious. Coasters for tea and liminal spaces between snowfalls, neglected gardens dormant beneath. I will ask questions and enjoy our anxiety together, in our aging breast’s lumps and nightly wakefulness and torrents of doubt. Striving at being curious instead of recklessly judgmental, until the overhead speaker intones “Your tenure is almost up, young lady.” If you don’t cauterize the wound you’ll find (die of) infection.
