Girlhood | 
Since you remain reluctant, let us imagine
that one's selfhood is a work of art - a maquette
in clay, as may be, and each life event
enacted by the sculptor. In he creeps
to the damp-room on his crepe-soled shoes
again and again. In time the work proceeds
via a series of flukes and inspirations:
We knew it by the way the light had shrunk
to a frayed corona; in increments, we understood
there was nothing to do but swallow it whole
and inch our way forward again. But to find we were able-
that was the miracle. It was as if the soul,
which has no definite shape, consisted simply
of a flexible cell wall: in grief, the soul
distorts and forms a seal around the loss.
